


Feed Me (Give Me Your Heart)

by monchy



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Child Abuse, Eating Disorders, F/F, F/M, Miscarriage, Non-Canon Relationship, Non-Canonical Character Death, Violence, marital sexual abuse, swanqueen endgame
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2018-04-14 06:49:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 353,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4554834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monchy/pseuds/monchy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She’s six years old the first time mother chooses to punish her by sending her to sleep without dinner." </p><p>A re-telling of Regina's story, from age six to the Evil Queen and beyond.</p><p>(Please, do read the TW in the notes).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> TW1: This fic deals with food, _a lot_. It's basically a character. Also, while eating disorders aren't spoken of as such, they are implied, so careful if that makes you uncomfortable.
> 
> TW2: Parental emotional and physical abuse (basically, Cora).
> 
> TW3: Marital rape (basically, Leopold).
> 
> TW4: Miscarriage.
> 
> AN1: This story is swanqueen endgame, but it depicts Regina's life from very early on, and it does so slowly. So, first of all, it takes a while for Emma to show up.  
> Also, Regina's other relationships are fairly explicit, meaning Regina/Daniel and Dragon Queen (so yes, there's explicit het sex within this, as well as lesbian sex not with Emma). I just want to make that very clear, as I understand it might not be everyone's cup of tea.  
> (There's also some canon Outlaw Queen, and while it won't be explicit, it will dwell on how Regina feels about sex with the jerkwad).
> 
> AN2: The story follows canon sort of up to 4x20, just adding lots and lots to it ('cause you know, swanqueen). But the main events remain.
> 
> AN3: Discussions of period, and sex with period which, you know, might squick you.
> 
> AN4: There's some Spanish in there. There will be translations in the notes at the end. 
> 
> AN5: Basically, this is me trying my hand at OUaT fanfiction by writing the most long-winded story ever. I had to look into _How to Identify Horses' Parts for Dummies_ , guys. Appreciate the effort.

She’s six years old the first time mother chooses to punish her by sending her to sleep without dinner. Regina knows better than to stay outside too late by now, but she enjoys being in the stables so much that time run away from her, and by the time she stepped her way home the moon was already out and night had fallen upon her.

She drags mud on her way in, and mother looks at her in that way that makes Regina stiff her posture, back straight and arms at her sides, ready for what’s to come. Going to bed without food seems like a light punishment for her transgression, having been expecting mother’s rage to come in the form of angry magic, or perhaps the strong grip of her hand on Regina’s wrist in that way that leaves her feeling sore for days, the skin red above her little hand.

“You’ll learn one way or another, I suppose,” mother says. It’s ominous, but Regina is no more than a child, and all she registers is that her small lapse of judgment hasn’t caused her any pain.

That night, with her stomach grumbling angrily, she bites the inside of her cheek, and falls asleep thinking of breakfast.

 

* * *

 

 

They always have their meals together, mother insisting that being able to do so is a privilege she never had as a child herself. She always speaks of her father in derisive tones, her mouth twisting in an ugly sneer when she calls herself _the miller’s daughter._

Regina enjoys their family meals, though, likes hearing her father speak of the traditional dishes of his home, delights herself trying the spiciest flavors that speak to her about her heritage. Mother doesn’t seem to enjoy food much, but then again, Regina isn’t sure she enjoys anything other than magic and always having the upper hand. It makes it hard to please her, but sometimes, when Regina lifts her chin in just the right way, and manages to fix herself in the appropriate posture, the way a little lady should, mother’s lips turn into a small satisfied smile, and Regina feels herself elated with pride.

Still, mother never smiles during meals, and while father keeps talking animatedly about the foreign aromas of a home he clearly misses, Regina begins to suspect that mother is only watching her intently, studying her every move. When Regina starts attacking her meals with a little less gusto, a little feigned disinterest, mother starts smiling at her more often.

 

* * *

 

“Oh,” Regina whispers as she sees the inevitable happen. Promptly, her calmness is broken and she finds herself anxious, muttering a panicked, “Oh, no.”

She’s ten years old, but she already knows that the broken jar of jam resting at her feet will be cause for trouble. Jacinta, the old kitchen maid that always makes her father’s favorite dishes, smiles candidly at her, and quickly tries to reassure her with a kind hand on her shoulder, shushing her as if she’s a small scared animal.

“ _Tranquila, pequeña, no es nada_ ,” she tells her softly, and Regina allows herself the luxury of finding comfort in her words and in the lilting tones of her father’s native language. The ease lasts but a second, though, and soon enough she’s crouching down to pick up the mess, her eyes already wet with unshed tears.

“ _Pequeña…_ ” Jacinta tries again, but Regina shushes her, unkind and sharp. **(1)**

“You don’t understand,” Regina mutters. “She knows, she always–"

And as if summoned, mother appears in the kitchens. Regina wonders if she can explain somehow, but her mother’s face is already set in a tight grimace of silent fury, as if Regina is nothing but a small bag full of disappointment, a burden for her to bear. Words die on her lips as she looks at herself through her mother’s gaze, sees herself crouching on the kitchen floor over broken glass and expensive jam, some of the gooey concoction staining her pretty blue gown.

“Well, I can see that at least you know what you’ve done,” mother says, curt and slow. Regina catches Jacinta on the corner of her eye, taking a step backwards and looking down, her hands shaking more than Regina’s own. She’s alone, then, alone, _alone, alone._

Mother sighs, weary, and soon enough her grip on Regina’s wrist is tight enough to make her want to cry out. She knows better than that by now, though, so she quells her instincts and remains silent as mother drags her through the empty hallways of their home in the direction of her room. Her mutters of _you’ll learn how to be a proper lady yet, Regina_ and _I thought you knew better, child, treating yourself to sweets like some uneducated peasant girl_ almost fall on deaf ears. Regina listens though, her little mind registering transgressions and punishments, learning what is expected of her so that she can try harder, be better, be the lady her mother wants her to be.

They bypass her room on their way, and Regina’s chest fills with fear, her breathing coming out shallow and hard when her mother’s steps take her to the cellar instead. She throws her in unceremoniously, the door closing behind her with a sickening thud.

Swallowing hard, Regina finally manages to find her voice just so she can beg against the closed door. “Please, mother, please,” she cries. “I’ll be better, I’ll try harder, I’ll be all you want, I’ll…”

Her cries die against the wooden door, going unanswered, and she’s left alone in the dark.

The cellar is small and humid, and old friend of Regina’s by now. It smells acrid and moldy, and small rats populate the small space, attracted to the stench and the cold. Regina knows it’s ten steps wide and seven steps long, because she’s already counted in the foodless nights mother has condemned her to spend in the tiny space. This time she doesn’t count, instead finding the corner of the room she’s already made hers and sitting with her knees close to her chest, making sure the skirt of her dress covers the side of her legs and her feet, hopefully stopping any rodent or bug from crawling over her. She breathes in and out slowly, trying to stop the harshness with which the air comes from her nose. Mother would want her to be strong, mother would want her to come out of the cellar with a clean dress and a proud stance, her nose high up in the air, and Regina plans on doing just that.

It’s three days before mother lets her out this time.

Regina feels faint and disoriented, the darkness of the cellar not letting her guess how much time has passed. Too long, she thinks, even as she makes an effort to walk with her head held high. She does her best at hiding her shaking, and follows her mother’s instructions wordlessly, letting herself be bathed and clothed even when she feels like collapsing on the spot. She needs to be good, needs to be proud and strong, and with that single mantra in her head she joins mother and father for dinner, remaining still even as her mouth waters when the soft aroma of stew wafts up her nose. It’s a bland dish, one of mother’s choices, but it smells like the most luxurious of delicacies to Regina’s hungry senses.

“You may start now, Regina,” mother intones, her voice almost tender.

Regina nods, manages a small, “Thank you, mother.”

Regina wants to dive into her plate of food ravenously, but she knows better than to behave like a savage. She picks up her cutlery and eats slowly, small morsels of food filling an empty, complaining stomach. The first bites melt slowly in her mouth, and she closes her eyes briefly as she eats. Her withering stomach can’t take much though, and she soon finds herself sick of the taste and of the heavy way the soft meat falls into her belly. Halfway through her meal, she pushes the plate back. Next to her on the table, father looks down, and mother smiles.

 

* * *

 

The day Regina turns twelve, mother dresses her in a deep plum gown with puffy sleeves and a tight bow that falls down the back of a full skirt. It’s new and shiny, and even before the maids are done with her hair, she finds herself twirling contentedly. She feels happy and prettier than ever, wearing dark colors the way the older girls do, hugged by fine fabrics and having her hair done up for the special occasion. She stops her antics when the maids _tsk_ at her, so when mother walks in to see her she’s quiet and still, and her hair is pleated in a beautiful thick braid that wraps around her head.

“You look almost beautiful, Regina,” mother says. There’s unadulterated delight in her gaze, though, and Regina can’t help but beam at her for a too long second before she schools her features back into a neutral, soft smile.

Mother nods, approving, and Regina breathes better, thinking that she may yet grow to be beautiful one day. Mother would definitely prefer her if she didn’t look so much like her father, if she was like those pale, blonde princesses that she’s seen in her short visits to other royal families, and Regina feels a little guilty for enjoying her black hair and her darker skin, for daring to think that she’s not completely ugly. There’s the way her hair gets frizzy and curly with humidity, of course, and that small scar above her lip that mother can’t bear to look upon, but she’s starting to enjoy the shape of her eyes and lips, the way they shine when she looks at herself in the mirror, and how bright they seem in contrast to the dark fabric of her new birthday dress.

They have a small party with some of Regina’s cousins and aunts and uncles. Regina doesn’t know them very well, but they seem kind and open, and she plays hostess with a gracious smile, her shoulders thrown back and her voice steady. She doesn’t feel awkward or clumsy, and when a big cake appears from the kitchen, she warmly refuses a piece, and instead makes sure everyone is enjoying themselves.

Grandfather Xavier gives her a beautiful, shiny tiara that has her mother nodding approvingly, and it’s only the tip of a pile of beautiful, grand gifts. Regina can’t help but love father’s the best, though, a tree shaped pendant that she wears almost immediately.

“Thank you, daddy,” she whispers, feeling her façade escape her as her father hugs her tightly. For a short moment, she feels like nothing but a little girl, warm and protected and cared for, her father’s smile bigger than she’s ever seen it. The warmth of his big arms stays with her the rest of the night.

 

* * *

 

Her period comes two days later, a scary drop of sticky blood staining her white undergarments and appearing right after a particularly long ride above her favorite horse. It makes her instantly anxious, and she faces her mother with sweaty hands that can’t stop moving. Even as mother smiles, Regina digs her right thumb into her left palm, the almost painful pressure of her gesture keeping her steady and in the moment.

Mother speaks to her then, of what it means to be a woman, of the future that awaits her as wife of a great man, of the duties she will have to fulfill. It makes Regina feel sick enough that when mother tells her that she’s to stay in her room while she’s bleeding, and is only to be fed once a day, she’s almost grateful.

The bleeding makes her feel disgusting and dirty, and the random bouts of pain that accost her lower belly have her curled up on bed most of the day, happy that she doesn’t have to deal with much of anything while her body chooses to torture her so. She’s hungry, though, and when she’s left alone in her room with a meager plate of bland, tasteless food, she devours it voraciously, in an unseemly manner that would make her mother balk. She feels nothing like a lady, though, more like an animal possessed by primal need, and she can’t help herself from giving into her own needs. It’s shameful, all of it, and Regina thinks mother must be right to keep her away from the world when she’s like this.

On the third night, though, when the trickle of blood is almost gone and Regina is starting to breathe better, her door creaks open to reveal the small figure of her father. Regina sits up in bed almost immediately, watching her father with curious eyes as he slithers his way into the room clad in sleepers and his thick night robe.

“Daddy?” she asks, voice full of wonder even as she does her best at covering herself with her bed linens.

Father approaches silently, though, and soon enough he finds a clear spot on the bed and sits down by her, a candid smile on his face. The room is dark but for the moonlight that filters through her window, so she can barely make out her father’s expression. She knows it must be soft and warm, though, the way it always is, and Regina’s chest fills with an unbridled surge of love for her kindly father.

“ _Cielo_ , I bring you a treat,” he says, his voice whisper soft and intimate. As he speaks, he opens his palm and, hidden inside a folded white napkin, shows her a small, dark square of chocolate. “It’s dark, my favorite.” **(2)**

“Daddy, I can’t,” Regina answers immediately, her first instinct now to resist anything sweet. The straightening of her posture is second nature by now, and she doesn’t know why the gesture makes her father look so sad.

“My mother used to always give me some when I was feeling a bit down,” he explains, looking at her with wide eyes. “Your mother said you weren’t feeling quite well.”

Regina shrugs, biting the inside of her cheek as she looks at the treat still on her father’s hand. “It’s… We’re not supposed to talk about it,” she says.

“Then we won’t talk about it, my little princess.”

Regina can’t help but smile, lightness soaring inside her for the first time in days. She reaches out warily, almost afraid that mother is hiding behind one of her bedposts and is ready to scold her for giving into temptation, but smiles openly when taking the piece of chocolate and bringing it to her lips. It has a bittersweet taste to it, and it melts slowly on her tongue, the texture of it thick and goopy. When the small piece is gone, she licks the last remnant of it from her fingers, and sighs, suddenly feeling tired.

“Thank you, daddy,” she whispers into the small space between them, tiny and intimate and full of feeling. She loves her father more than anyone in the world, and she hopes he knows because she doesn’t know quite how to express the depth of the feeling. It’s strange and light, free in a way that her love for mother can’t quite achieve.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he answers, reaching up and pressing a hand to the side of her face, the rough skin of his thumb drawing a small circle on the apple of her cheek. “You’re beautiful, Regina, remember that, _si, cielo_?” He whispers. “Everything about you is beautiful.”

Father presses a kiss to her forehead before leaving, and when he closes the door, Regina realizes that she’s crying.

 

* * *

 

As the years go by, Regina grows up into what mother deems a _presentable young lady._ Regina learns which battles to fight and when to count her losses, and finds ways around mother’s discipline in a manner that seems to please her tremendously. Mother’s affection for her has always been restrained, but Regina feels as if she may just be getting things right more and more.

Mother manages to rid her kitchens of the old cook, and brings an old man that cooks as she says, quickly eliminating the flavors of her father’s heritage from their table. Regina misses the spiciness and the tastefulness, but learns to keep her mouth shut and accept what her mother feels are appropriate meals. It’s better than going foodless, she reasons, and better than spending long nights trapped in the small space of the cellar.

Father grows quieter by the day, and it seems to Regina as if he’s shrinking into himself, making himself smaller, as if he’s ashamed of occupying space in this state that now so very clearly belongs to her mother. Father has never been a big man, not in size or personality, but Regina remembers a quiet enthusiasm about him that she only sees glimpses of in the dark recesses of her room, when he slithers in quietly to offer her a forbidden, tasteful morsel of something sweet.

It’s become tradition, almost, for father to bring her a small something when Regina has been withering away in her room for days, blood between her legs and cramps taking hold of her body. Sometimes he brings fruit, or jam and bread, fresh milk or gooey biscuits that he convinces one of the kitchen’s maids to bake for him; and always, always a small square piece of dark chocolate. They talk briefly during those nights, relishing in their little intimate moments in a way that makes Regina suspect that perhaps she’s not as close to being a presentable young lady as she should.

Mother, on the other hand, grows bigger and bigger, becomes more open and free with her magic, and positively terrifies the servants. There’s something intoxicating in her power, something fearsome that seems to crackle under her skin when she’s getting a spell ready, and Regina hates the way it makes the hairs on her arms stand on end and how it never fails to leave her breathless. She can almost taste it at the back of her tongue, bitter and metallic.

Mother, however, turns permissive with some of Regina’s habits and tastes. When Regina refuses music lessons after years of uselessly fighting against the keys of her piano forte, mother agrees that perhaps she’s not particularly inclined to the finer arts.

“You certainly haven’t been graced with delicate fingers, my dear,” she points out. “You have your father’s hands.”

On the other hand, among tutors and masters of every discipline mother considers important, she allows Regina time on the stables with old Master Clive and her favorite steed _Rocinante_ , as well as long, free hours to ride about the fields of the state. Old Master Clive is grouchy and nearly impolite, but Regina’s obvious love for their horses conquers him, and he teaches her to take care of the animals, to build a relationship with them, and to ride properly. He insists that she doesn’t allow herself complete freedom when she’s riding, but Regina feels like she’s flying when she’s atop _Rocinante_ , the wind on her face and big, grand spaces around her.

At age fifteen, Regina realizes that perhaps, she may just be happy. Sometimes, she feels something dark looming above her, above this house that surrounds her and her family, thinks that some of the things that go on between these walls aren’t completely right. She shakes the thoughts away, though, thinks of the small, upward twist of her mother’s mouth when Regina does something particularly pleasing, of her father’s soft voice in the dead of the night, of _Rocinante’s_ strong body between her thighs, and forgets the hunger and the shame that pervades her existence. She guesses that, after all, happiness must come at a certain price.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s a humid day outside when she comes into the stables to find a strange boy tending to the horses. She feels cold inside her riding coat, and she knows that her hair is probably looking curlier by the second, never mind the tight braid at the back of her head, but it’s been raining for nearly a week now and she’s been feeling stifled and trapped inside the manor. She’s been stepping on wet grass all the way here, the air still smelling water-soaked, and she hopes desperately that it’s only the ending of the heavy rains, and not the threat of more water falling from the sky.

She runs into the stables, careful not to get mud into her riding pants, and is greeted not by the familiar sight of old Master Clive grumbling away, but by a boy not much older than herself. He doesn’t seem to notice her, and only turns to look at her when she clears her throat determinately, doing her best at straightening up and making herself look taller.

“Who are you, boy?” she questions.

He looks at her from under long lashes, throwing longish hair back with a quick shake of his head, and smiles. Something strange twitches behind Regina’s breastbone, something new and foreign that has her taking a step back, not particularly sure why.

“Boy?” he questions after a bit. “And what are you, milady? An old crow to call me that?”

Regina huffs, the sudden surge of unfamiliar feelings being immediately quenched by shock. “I will refer to you as I please, _boy,_ ” she answers, her hands turning into fists at her side and her mouth twisting angrily. “And you may want to watch your tongue; mother would have you lashed for less.”

In the face of her outrageous fury, the boy has the gall to laugh. His smile grows bigger and his eyes widen, clearly amused by her, and Regina isn’t quite sure if she wants to throttle him or shrink into herself. She ends up curling protective arms around herself, unsure why her station and her tone don’t seem to grant her the respect she so desperately craves.

Whatever the boy sees in her, though, it makes his laughter stop. He regards her with curiosity, and reaches out with a hand that remains poised in the air between them.

“Do excuse me, milady, I meant no disrespect,” he says, his tone now earnest.

Regina looks up, finds his eyes, and realizes that her heart is beating wildly inside her ribcage. If it’s the product of rage or of something else completely she never gets to analyze, since before she can think about what she wants to say to this boy before her, Master Clive is thumping his way inside the stables, his trusty old cane announcing his presence before Regina can even see him.

“Now boy, are you bothering the little lady?” he asks even as he’s raising his cane menacingly the boy’s way, merely shaking it in the air as some sort of warning.

The boy ducks with a smile on his face and makes his way back to the neglected horse he’d been tending to before Regina called his attention. “We were merely getting to know each other, grandpa.”

“I do not believe one word out of your mouth,” old Master Clive intones, his cane now back on the ground and his wide mouth turned into what Regina suspects is actually an amused grimace. “Apologize to the little lady and help her get _Rocinante_ ready. It’s been raining for days and they’re both anxious for a ride.”

Regina smiles at the old man candidly, and says, “Thank you, Master Clive, but an apology won’t be necessary.” She refuses to look at the boy as she says this, instead focusing on his so called _grandpa_ and his kind grey eyes.

As a child, she’d been afraid of the master of the stables, already very old before her infantile eyes, and seemingly always in a bad mood. Mother had taught her to think less of ugly people, and there was certainly nothing comely about the old master, with his too big mouth, his wide nose and his round, red cheeks. Her love for the stables had made her surpass her fear, though, and the grumpy master had taken a shine to her when she’d timidly began to ask him about their very fine collection of horses. Regina had stopped thinking him ugly then, and had realized that there was nothing but a warm soul behind his harsh speech and rough hands.

“This is my grandson, Daniel,” the old Master tells her after a single nod of his head. “I’m afraid my eyes and my hands aren’t what they used to be, milady, and the boy’s mother thinks it will do him good to keep busy and learn an office.”

Without being prompted, the boy makes a little show of bowing her way, and politely asks, “How do you do, milady?”

Regina suspects there’s a sigh of mockery in his tone, but she still curtseys and answers in kind. “How do you do?”

“Now, milady,” old Master Clive intervenes, “do not let the little rascal get away with anything; if he does something unbecoming of a young man you come to me and I’ll teach him good manners.” Again, his cane comes up in the air menacingly.

Daniel smiles, though, obviously not very afraid of his old grandfather, and more than a little amused at his antics. Regina can’t help herself from replicating a bitter version of the gesture, unconsciously envious of the clear affection between grandfather and grandson. She shakes the feeling away, though, and walks towards where Daniel is preparing _Rocinante_ for a ride. She touches the horse’s muzzle softly in a silent salute, letting her hand glide down the soft mane, and breathes in, her eyes closing for a brief second. When she opens her eyes again, she catches Daniel’s insolent gaze with her own, and wonders why her lungs feel as if they’re ready to explode.

               

* * *

 

Daniel becomes a permanent fixture then, even to the point where Master Clive leaves him alone to take care of the stables himself. Master Clive tells Regina that he’s older than she thinks, and Regina merely smiles politely and tells him that he’s never looked better. The idea that she may just loose the old master is surprisingly painful, like a hard, unmoving stone that settles high on Regina’s throat and doesn’t let her swallow. The truth is, the old master is one of the few people within the state that she speaks to freely, and she realizes that she would miss the grumpy bluntness of the old man.

She’d had a friend once, one of the kitchen's maid’s daughters that had been close in age to her. They would play outside, running about the trees and tumbling carelessly to the ground, the importance of clean clothes and a graceful demeanor completely foreign to their tiny, seven year old selves. Mother had found out eventually, of course, and in her innocence, Regina had smiled as she had told tales of her short adventures with the little girl.

“Playing around with peasants, Regina?” mother had said, and it had felt like a slap to her tiny face. “I expect better from you.”

The mistake had gotten her her first foodless night inside the cellar, and the little girl and her mother had been sent packing away from the state that very same night. Next morning, mother had explained to a crying Regina that she was going to be queen, and that she could not allow herself the vulnerability of being friends with the servants. It hadn’t mattered much, anyway, since no other child had ever approached her again after the incident, no one else had ever treated her again as anything else than the young lady she was supposed to be.

Master Clive is something else entirely, though, a man too old to deny a kind hand to a little girl, and slightly more free from his place within the stables, far away enough from the manor to be granted too much of mother’s attention.

Daniel, just like his grandfather, is something else entirely. He’s insolent but not unkind, and Regina can’t help but feel as if he’s amused by her more than anything. There’s something close to mockery in his words whenever they speak, but it doesn’t feel cruel or hurtful, merely surprisingly familiar. As if they’re friends, perhaps. As if there’s more to Regina than a stuck up little lady who only ever speaks truthfully to her father during stolen moments.

The horses like Daniel, and that already sets Regina at ease. She trusts the animals more than she trusts most people, and the ease with which they accept Daniel’s presence calms her down, even when her hands feel sweaty when he’s around, and when she can’t seem to stop blushing when he smiles. He’s handsome, Regina supposes, with his droopy eyes full of warmth, his sharp cheeks and his thin lips, his swept up hair so different from what she’s seen in the few chances she’s had to meet nobles her age.

He rides with her sometimes, whenever he’s not instructing her on her posture when she jumps with _Rocinante_ so as not to hurt herself. She tells him that she knows what she’s doing, and he just smirks in a way that makes Regina both uneasy and excited. When he helps her down from the horse she tells him that she can do it herself, and he just bows and calls her _milady_ as if she’s the funniest thing he’s ever encountered.

He surprises her one day when she’s resting by the old apple tree, _Rocinante_ by her side and the manor at her back. The sun is starting to set up in the sky, and Regina is so enthralled with the sight that the appearance of his tall, thin figure has her yelping in surprise.

He laughs, open but quiet as he approaches her. “It’s just me, milady.”

Regina offers him a tight smile, and then makes sure to go back to staring at the sky, rather than at him. “And what are you doing here?” she questions.

“Just taking a walk before dinner, milady.”

“Well, do keep walking.”

He doesn’t, of course, opposing her perhaps more enjoyable than bending to her every wish. It’s odd that she prefers this than the coldness of everyone else around her, even if it makes her want to stomp her feet like a little child not getting her way.

“If you allow me the impertinence, milady–”

“I don’t!”

He laughs yet again, small and huffy, looking down at his feet and then back up at Regina. His eyes are shinier in the waning light, and Regina has to look away because she can’t control the rapid beating of her heart, and it makes her entirely too scared. He doesn’t say anything else, though, and instead walks closer to the tree and begins examining it. Regina realizes he’s looking for a ripe apple to tear down. As he continues looking up and away from Regina, she stares down at her hands, and twisting her lips with indecision, finally gives in.

“What were you going to say?” she wonders finally.

He looks at her then, even as his arms are reaching up towards the tree. “Excuse me, milady?”

“I will allow you the impertinence,” she replies, huffy and put out just for show. “What were you going to say?”

He takes a moment before he speaks, and Regina looks away from him, even as she can spy him from the corner of her eye grabbing an apple and walking back to stand next to her.

“You’re very good with the horses, milady,” is what he says finally. “But I can’t help but feel that you’re not letting go completely when you ride; perhaps you’re too afraid of dirtying your pretty outfit?”

Regina turns sharply, facing him with hands fisted at her sides and expression twisted into an ugly sneer. She’s ready to scoff something unkind at him, making sure he knows that he if were to ever say something so utterly impolite in front of her mother he would be out of this state the next second, in the best case scenario. He’s careless in his remarks, and perhaps Regina shouldn’t have allowed him as much freedom as she has in his behavior with her. She intends to tell him so, to put him in his rightful place as nothing more than the stable boy, but when they look at each other his eyes and his whole demeanor is filled with such courteous affection that Regina finds herself drawing a sharp breath, unable to speak. He’s holding an apple to her, and the simple gesture makes her deflate in less than a second. Rather than scolding, she huffs instead.

“You’re insolent, _boy,_ ” she tells him finally, the inflexion on the word _boy_ making him chuckle.

He doesn’t say anything else, instead motioning forward with the apple yet again, prompting Regina to take it. She merely looks at it, the shiny red skin that seems to glow.

“I shouldn’t,” she says.

“It’s just an apple, milady.”

She thinks of a meager breakfast and a tasteless meal, and of the small dinner that is surely expecting her back at the manor, of the dessert she won’t have so mother smiles at her in that way that makes her feel almost warm. Without another thought, she reaches out and takes the fruit, gracelessly biting into it with a desperation she’s not sure she understands. The crunchy sound of her bite is peculiarly satisfying. The apple is sweet and juicy, and as she enjoys the first bite, she can’t help but touch her hand to her stomach. Daniel smiles, as if he knows exactly what she’s feeling, and Regina doesn’t know why she suddenly feels like crying.

Daniel nods at her, small and polite, and murmurs, “You should get back soon, milady, it's almost dark.”

He does walk away then, taking a few steps backwards so he can look at Regina for a while longer, the freshly bitten apple still in her hand, and her expression mildly dumbfounded. She doesn’t want him to leave, but he finally does.

Regina finishes the apple before she rides back home.

 

* * *

 

It's a week later when Regina comes into the stables to find Daniel with red-rimmed, teary eyes. She should know better by now than to care about a servant's tears.

"Only weak people cry in front of others, Regina," mother would always say. "Your sadness is not a spectacle for others to mock. Keep your emotions to yourself, my dear, and no one will ever have the upper hand."

Regina should know better, and yet she can't help but ask. Daniel shakes his head, tries to avoid looking upset and feigns a pride that he clearly doesn't know how to own, struggling to look as if the tears falling down his cheeks are nothing but Regina's overactive imagination. He concedes at last, one of Regina's glares that usually amuse him so making him crumble and whisper a tired:

"It's grandfather; he's dying."

Regina gasps, shocked to her core by the news, and without giving her impulses much of a second though, she demands, "Take me to him."

Daniel doesn't deny her request, but he does take her to the small cottage that is the old master's house with something akin to embarrassment. Regina does feel displaced, her simple riding outfit suddenly looking expensive and luxurious in the face of the small little house. Master Clive's family surrounds him, and when three tired faces stare at her, Regina hugs herself, trying but failing to make herself smaller to these people she's so clearly disturbing. She has no right to be here, not with her pristine blue coat and her proud stance, interrupting the simple life of these people she has never even imagined existed.

She apologizes clumsily, does her best with an awkward smile as she tries to hide her frame behind Daniel's.

"Milady," suddenly a voice pipes up, urgent and nearly alarmed. "Let me get you some tea."

Regina looks at the suddenly hurried woman, a middle-aged, wide-shouldered maid with a strict face that she recognizes from having seen her in the manor. She wonders if that's Daniel's mother, and then is guiltily struck by the thought that if this woman works at the manor and knows her mother, the last thing she wants or needs is to have her meddlesome unthoughtful daughter inviting herself into her house.

"Oh, no, please," Regina refuses quickly, throwing her hands forward and trying to be as honest as possible with her words. "That's very kind of you, but I don't mean to intrude."

They remain in a standstill then, unsure where to go to in such a foreign social situation. Regina shouldn't be here, and she doesn't have her mother's ability to walk into every situation as if she owned the place. She thinks of apologizing profusely and running away, but before she can do such a thing, Daniel breaks all trace of protocol and reaching back so that no one notices, slides his hand into hers. She's still wearing her riding gloves, but it feels to her as if a world of warmth is seeping through them and into her skin, making her breath fall short and her heart beat so fast that it feels as if it wants to break away from her chest. She looks at him, wide eyed, and the silly boy has the gall to wink.

"Milady just wanted to see grandfather," he says.

There's an almost collective nod, and then Regina is being led to a single, large room at the back of the small house, where old Master Clive rests on a fragile looking bed, covered in tattered blankets and surrounded by pillows that help prop him up. Regina's stomach recoils, upset at the smell of sickness and old age, of the death that will take over this house soon.

"Is that the little lady?" the old master asks, squinting his eyes as if he can barely see two inches before him. "Come closer, please."

Regina does, choosing to throw the discomfort of the situation she's gotten herself into to the back of her mind and swiftly ignoring her trembling hands. Master Clive looks scarily small among the fluffed out pillows, and Regina feels a pang on her chest, a foreign tightness settling around her throat at the weakened image of someone who had always seemed to her as larger than life.

Not really knowing what to do, she kneels by the bed, and removing her gloves, searches for the master's big, knobby hand and envelops it between her own. The touch is rough and unfamiliar, but when Regina feels salt on her lips, she realizes that she's crying, and that she doesn't know what to say or feel.

"Now that's enough of that, little lady," Master Clive tells her, motioning as if he wants to wipe her tears away, even when he's clearly too weak to reach out. "I'm so old now, I have my family with me here and they're making me a warm meal to enjoy before I leave this world; it's a better end than I deserve, so don't you be sad over this old man."

Regina manages a trembling smile, a sort of grimace that doesn't hold up for more than two seconds. The old master has been consistently kind to her, and the idea of losing him is so devastating that it leaves her speechless.

"Come on now," he says, letting his head roll on his pillow so he can look at her with his familiar grey eyes. "You be happy and strong now, little lady; promise that to an old man and I'll go peacefully."

The sob she swallows tangles inside her throat, painful and raw, but it doesn't stop her from nodding almost maniacally. It brings what looks like a peaceful smile to the old man's face, and finding herself unable to speak, Regina moves up and forward until she can place a wet kiss to his wrinkly cheek. He squeezes her hands as she does so, so Regina lingers for a moment too long, allows herself the forbidden comfort of saying goodbye to a man below her station that she shouldn't care for the way she does.

She moves back eventually, and takes that as her cue to leave. She disengages herself from the old man and stands up on legs that she finds suddenly weak. She only finds enough will in herself to nod at the rest of the old master's family, the trio looking at her as if they don't quite know what to think and Daniel giving her the hint of a sad smile. With that, she steps away from the cottage, only her trembling legs stopping her from running away.

Once she's outside, though, she takes a big breath, the fresh air seeping into her lungs and allowing her to inhale properly. There are steps behind her, and she turns to find Daniel behind her, a sad smile still stretching his handsome face and his eyes watery with unshed tears.

"Milady! Allow me to accompany you back."

Regina shakes her head, thinking that the last thing she needs to add to her confusing emotions is a walk with this boy that makes her insides churn with unknown desires. "I'll be fine, Daniel," she answers, futilely trying to stand up to her full height and regain her composure. "Go be with your family," she concedes. And then, before walking away, she repeats, "I'll be fine."

 

* * *

               

Regina gets home not long later, her boots muddy and her riding pants dark at the knees from leaning on a dusty floor. She walks inside with her head low and her shoulders hunched, and the moment she catches sight of her mother, she knows that _I'll be fine_ is an assessments that won't be coming true. Mother's waiting for her by the door to her room, the dark blue gown she' wearing, her stiff, controlled posture, her hands clasped at her front and her steady, flinty expression betraying the anger in her eyes, forever to be etched in Regina's head as the image she'll conjure up whenever mother comes to mind. Mother doesn't speak and neither does Regina, not when their gazes lock, and not when mother enchants her so that she walks unwillingly behind her, following silent yet purposeful steps.

Regina doesn't talk, and she doesn't fight the magical bindings around her, even when she hates losing control like this, yielding it to her mother's unnatural powers. She's tried before, and she knows that when she fights the spell only tightens around her, pressing invisible binds to her sides until she can barely breathe. Last time she'd fought she'd broken a rib, and at least mother won't be able to say that she doesn't occasionally learn her lesson.

Their walk ends at the cellar, where mother chooses to grab her wrist and physically throw her in, as if she needs the aggression to go further than her aseptic magic. Regina stumbles inside, and once the spell releases her, she falls down, arms protecting her face and knees buckling and crashing painfully against the floor. The door closes behind her, and she's surrounded by darkness.

This time, Regina doesn't cry, she doesn't yell after her mother or asks for mercy. She doesn't ask for help, knowing by now that she won't get any, not from the inhabitants in this house, and not from creatures of legend she stopped reading about years ago when she realized they'd never come for her. She's alone, but she knows what she's done and the punishment that awaits her inside these walls. No food, no light, but no fear anymore; only anger, and the knowledge that mother will be happy when she comes out and she hasn't heard her scream.

    

* * *

 

               

It's a little over two days this time, during which old Master Clive dies, as mother gleefully announces to her the moment she comes out of the darkness, feeling faint and unhinged. Regina merely nods, knowing that the thought won't register until later, when she's alone in her room and not feeling as if the world's spinning around her.

"Now, dear," mother tells her as they walk towards her rooms. "Bathe and get changed; you're going for a ride."

"Mother?"

"You love horses and the stables so much, I figured it would be the first thing you'd want to do."

Mother reaches out for her as she speaks, tucks a dirty lock of hair behind her ear and lets her knuckles run down softly over Regina's cheek. Despite everything, Regina shivers from the affection, and has to bite her lip to remind herself of her composure and not cry.

"Mother?" she whispers, feeling her voice raspy and unused, painful as it comes out of her throat. "I just want to be better for you. I want to be everything you want, everything you need."

Mother smiles then, and Regina chooses to believe that she does so honestly when her thumb stays resting on the apple of Regina's cheek, a small caress of roughened hands that resemble old Master Clive's in a way that mother would be loathe to admit.

"You will endure, dear, and you will be your best. You are my daughter, after all."

Regina nods importantly, feeling suddenly elated in the trust mother seems to be putting in her character. _I will endure,_ she tells herself. The thought lasts her all through her bath and while she's getting dressed; it even fills her spirit as she coldly gives her condolences to a clearly grieving Daniel while he gets _Rocinante_ ready. As she gets on the horse and comes out to the fields, pain filling her stomach and crawling all the way up to her throat, head throbbing to the point of wooziness and lightheadedness, she uses the thought as shield and armor, and plunges through. When she passes out above _Rocinante_ on her way back to the stables, she has a last second to wonder why mother's ideals aren't enough to carry her through.

She comes to heavily and unsteadily, her senses thick as she tries to open her eyes, not sure of where she is or why her limbs are so heavy. She tries to lift her hand to her forehead, but the effort feels like entirely too much and she ends up dropping it halfway there, so it falls somewhere between her chest and stomach, where her fingers curl around the fabric she finds there. The air around her feels hot and humid, and she finds that she's unconsciously pulling, as if her clothes will come off if only she wills them hard enough.

She finally blinks her eyes awake, but has to give them an extra push just to focus on the place around her. When they finally do, the first thing she sees is Daniel hovering above her with worry etched in his features. She realizes he's cradling her prone body in his arms, and has the feeling that the warm stables are not to blame for her heatedness, but rather the arms that Daniel has around her, and the leg that's supporting her back.

"There you are, milady," he tells her, and the smile she spies on his lips is the only good thing Regina has seen in days. "You scared me there for a second."

"What happened?"

"You passed out on your horse, milady."

Regina blinks a few times rapidly, as if the mere gesture were enough to bring her back to her full senses. She feels dense, though, and entirely too heavy, so her instinct to jump away from Daniel's arms and into a standing position only takes her halfway into a terrible attempt at being alert. She nearly falls down again, and ends up back in Daniel's arms.

"Easy, milady," he whispers.

Regina whimpers, not sure if she's allowed to be in this position, or if she really wants to. She knows she's inside the stables and that Daniel is the only one around to see her like this, but news travel fast in the state, and she doesn't know if the weakness that has its grip on her is acceptable at all. Daniel, perhaps sensing her distress, or perhaps reacting to how tense her body feels, moves her about until she's sitting on a small, low stool, her back resting against a wall so she won't topple over.

"Thank you," she mumbles.

Daniel doesn't say anything, instead disappearing for a moment that Regina utilizes to close her eyes and try to focus and regain some strength. It's not use, and it only makes her realize that she's disgustingly sweaty and impossibly disheveled. Daniel reappears soon, though, and when he offers her a tankard full of what looks like fresh milk, she forgets about her predicament for a moment and takes the offering without a second thought. She drinks a mouthful far too fast, the cold liquid falling down her throat but also out the corners of her mouth so it runs down her chin.

"Pace yourself, milady," Daniel murmurs, kneeling by her side and looking at her with eyes that still show worry. Eventually, once Regina is taking a small, entirely too lady-like sip of the milk, he asks, "Should I take you back to the manor, milady? You don't look well; surely your mother will want to call a doctor."

"No! Please, don't tell my mother. I'm fine, I'm just... I'm fine." She tries to sound convincing, but everything is a little harder when her head is not completely steady. Her stomach, too, is upset, and the milk is both a blessing and a curse, clearly needed but a bit too much after almost three days of no food at all.

Daniel doesn't question her plea though, and merely nods in a way that Regina wishes isn't anyway close to understanding. He sits on the ground by her, and with the stool she's in being so low, it feels as if they're impossibly close, the distance far too intimate. She thinks she would blush in other circumstances, but her strength is gone and right now she's more than happy to lean into Daniel's.

She finishes the tankard eventually, and once that's over, Daniel offers something else even as he doesn't look at her. There's a peeled orange in his hand, and Regina's first instinct is to reject it; not only should she wait to sit at her own table with mother and father before she eats, but an orange is a delicacy in this land, and surely not something that a stable boy comes by every day. She's hungry, though, so very hungry, and it feels as if denying Daniel would be like rejecting a thoughtful courtesy, so she takes it and mumbles a barely inaudible _thank you_ before taking a slice into her mouth. She bites into it, knowing better than to eat too much too fast on an empty stomach, and finds herself uttering an unbidden moan when the sweet juice touches her tongue. Daniel looks at her then, one eyebrow raised, and she can't help but look away, ashamed.

With a small cough and after eating the rest of the slice, Regina manages to look back at Daniel and says, "I truly am sorry about your grandfather's passing. Despite what his appearance may have said, he was a kind man."

"Thank you, milady; I know he cared for you."

Regina just nods as acknowledgement, and just like that they fall into an easy silence, only broken by the horses around them. They're restless today, perhaps sensing Regina's own disquietude, even if she's starting to feel better. The sweet orange feels like the most exquisite thing she's ever tasted, and the air around her doesn't feel as heavy and humid as it did merely a while ago.

Halfway through the orange, Daniel breaks the silence, saying, "You know, when you're my wife, you're going to have to eat a lot more than that."

A piece of orange is left dangling in her hand, halfway to her mouth, as she looks at Daniel's serious face. "Excuse me?" she intones, incredulous.

"Yes, we're going to have to put some more meat in your bones, milady, especially if we want to have a few plump little children running around the house."

Regina scoffs, unsurprised by her natural response but completely stupefied by Daniel's brash smile. It disarms her, and considering that she's almost at her wits' end, she guesses she can't be blamed for stumbling over what to say next, which ends up being a particularly haughty, "I will marry a prince. Or a king!"

Daniel bursts into a small laugh, one that's so unbidden that when he's left with nothing but a smile on his face Regina can't help herself but be drawn to it.

"Of course you will, milady."

"Of course I will," she tells him, defiant.

She clicks her tongue inside her mouth, the gesture so unladylike that it makes her instantly scowl, and when she turns her eyes back towards Daniel, he's still smiling at her. She says nothing else, and instead takes what little remains of the orange, merely two small slices and offers them back to him. He doesn't take them back, of course, so Regina reaches for his hand and opens it until she can place the fruit back, and then close Daniel's fingers around it, so it's effectively returned. That done, she stands up, pointedly ignoring the helping hand he offers and instead leaning sideways against the wall when a wave of nausea hits her.

"Thank you very much for your kindness," she says, trying for distant when that's the last thing she's feeling right now.

Daniel mock bows at her, and when he looks up and finds her frowning, he offers her such a bold grin that Regina doesn't know what to do. She wants to reach out, put her arms around him and never let go, and the suddenness of the feeling leaves her mouth feeling dry, and the rest of her completely inadequate. One wouldn't need the strictest of upbringings to understand that a princess should not be wanting to find solace in the embrace of a stable boy, but Regina can hardly contain her feelings.

She leaves the stables without another glance and with a nearly impolite goodbye thrown over her shoulder, her back to Daniel, and does her best at reaching home without letting the queasiness of her stomach overcome her. Later that night, when she's wearing a beautiful gown and eating slowly from a tasteless dish, she fancies she can still taste the tanginess of an orange at the back of her mouth, and the warmth it was offered with at the center of her chest.

   

* * *

 

               

Mother organizes the biggest ball Regina has ever attended for her sixteenth birthday. It's a coming of age affair, and before Regina gets to enjoy the splendor, mother gives her a short, pointed talk about what kind of behavior is expected from her. Regina suspects that mother is looking for an adequate husband for her, and the thought makes Regina queasy.

Regina enjoys the ball, though. It's hard not to, with the manor decorated splendidly and filled with more people than Regina has ever seen before in her life. It seems to her that everyone around her is a paragon of beauty, and has to remind herself of how pleased she'd been when she'd looked at herself in the mirror before entering the ballroom. She's wearing white, as is tradition, and the gown mother has had made for her frees the skin of her shoulders and that of her upper arms, down to where her silken gloves begin. Her hair is up high on her head, the elaborate bun adorned by a sparkly, thick tiara that makes Regina feel as exactly what she is: a princess.

Regina had spent more time than necessary in front of her bedroom's full length mirror, letting her hands roam the fabric of her big skirt, tighten at her waist, travel up to her collarbones. Granted the luxury of being alone, she'd cupped her covered breasts, propped up by her corset so that they looked more present than ever before. Up until that moment, her breasts had been nothing but a source of pain during her periods, something that only added to the heaviness and bloating of the whole ordeal. In that dress, though, they'd made her feel more like a woman than ever before, and her thoughts, unbridled, had made her question whether Daniel would think her pretty if he were to see her in it.

At the ball, Regina doesn't eat, only speaks when first spoken to, and dances with everyone who asks. Dozens of princes and dukes and other nobles move about with her, admire her elegant dancing form and speak to her about shallow matters. She smiles and curtseys appropriately, and wonders why the feel of their hands on her waist and back pales when she thinks about waking up in Daniel's embrace in the dirty ground of the stables. Mother seems pleased with her behavior, though, and Regina can't deny that the music and dancing gets to her head, so not all her smiles are fake, and most of her joy is real.

Father only asks for a dance when most of the guests have gone, and the ones that are invited to stay at the manor are retiring for the night. Regina has her biggest, most honest smile for him, and while they twirl about the dance floor, form and steps forgotten, she laughs and laughs.

   

* * *

 

 

The day after all the guests have left the manor, Regina is allowed to finally go outside for a well deserved ride. Mother insists that she wants to see her jump some obstacles to inspect her progress, and Regina explains the strange request to herself as her mother's desire to see her in her new riding outfit, mother's own birthday present. Regina had been more than surprised by the peculiar gift from mother, but once she'd seen herself in the baby blue coat and light pants, she'd realized that perhaps she had outgrown her previous outfit, and that mother wouldn't want her to go around looking less than what she is.

Both mother and father watch her ride that afternoon, and Regina is pleased when she's particularly good at jumping obstacles. _Rocinante_ hasn't seen her in the past two weeks, and he grows anxious when he's not allowed out with Regina, almost as if their connection let him feel Regina's own desire for freedom in the fields above him. By the time she's done and Daniel is helping her down from the horse, Regina is smiling, and so is father. Mother, less prone to gestures of joy, is merely looking at _Rocinante_ as if she can't quite comprehend why her daughter is so enamored with the animal.

"And who is this?"

Regina startles, and realizes that mother isn't looking at _Rocinante_ but at Daniel, his hand still lingering on Regina's form after she's touched the ground. Regina takes a step back as if burnt, and finds herself inevitably pushing her thumb to her opposing palm, trying to calm the sudden nervousness of her mother's question. Of course mother doesn't know about Daniel, not when Master Clive had been taking care of the stables up until now, and when she leaves most of these unimportant dealings to father.

"Oh," Regina answers, her thumb painful in its pressure as she forces her tone to be dismissive and arrogant. "He's no one, just the new stable boy."

Mother stares and Regina looks away as if there's nothing important hanging on the balance of this conversation. She's desperate to make mother not notice Daniel, to make her think of him as nothing and no one, to take her gaze somewhere else. Time ticks away and Regina does her best at controlling her breathing when finally, mother looks away, throwing one dismissive hand up in the air.

"Oh well, I guess he'll do."

With a weak smile thrown her mother's way, Regina begins to breathe properly again.

Daniel, though, doesn't seem to appreciate the silent service Regina has done him by making him unimportant in her mother's eyes, since after that day, his playfulness and amusement are completely gone, his character replaced by that of a perfectly well-behaved stable boy. He helps Regina when he should, bows and curtsies appropriately, gives short answers always followed by her title and accepts her coldness with grace. It's unnerving and insufferable, and it makes Regina wonder what has gotten into him. She should be happy by the change, and yet, she finds herself missing the natural friendliness of his smile, and the casual nature of his touches.

"Father, what does love feel like?" she asks one night in the intimacy of her bedchambers.

She's had a singularly strong bleeding this month, longer than usual, and her cramps have been so consistently uncomfortable that not even her father's offering of chocolate is doing anything to make her feel better. Her breasts are very sensitive, her lower back has been persistently in pain and she's been harboring a headache for days, too. Despite all that, she's been hungrier than ever, and tonight she feels like screaming rather than like talking. Her father's presence always acts like a calming balm, though, and so she chooses to focus herself on a conversation and try and forget the last few days of shameful concealment and primitive hunger.

"What do you mean, _cielo?_ "

"I mean falling in love, what does that feel like?"

Father doesn't answer right away, as if he's mulling over what he wants to say. Mother has certainly spoken to her about a wife's duties, and Regina's had the displeasure of catching servants in unseemly acts a few times before, but no one has ever talked to her about real love. She can't help but wish that there's more to it than obligation or the uncomfortable grunts she'd heard from Gerda the scullery maid when some boy had been between her legs.

When father remains silent, Regina pushes. "You _do_ love mother," she whispers, trying not to think of her father becoming smaller by the day, of his graying hair and his absentminded looks, of his childhood servants thrown away from the state, or of his favorite dishes banned from their table.

" _Cielo,_ arranged marriages are always a complicated affair, but love, love does come from the most unexpected places." Father's tone turns wistful, almost young as he speaks, and when he looks into Regina's eyes, his lips are sporting a playful smirk. "Did you meet someone at your birthday party that you-"

"Oh, no, no!" Regina whispers immediately, childishly embarrassed in a way that she's only ever around her father. "Nothing like that."

Father sighs, his smile softer this time along with the rest of his features. He doesn't look young anymore, but he does look loving. He reaches out for Regina and places his fingers softly on her chin, the small caress affectionate and delicate. When he speaks again, it's in his own native tongue, which he almost never uses anymore because they both know mother doesn't approve of the link they share through it. She refused to learn it when she married father, and having Regina do so is perhaps the one and only time father put his foot down in their marriage. Regina has always enjoyed the lilting tone, and hearing her father speak it, she almost shivers with affection.

" _Cielo, enamorarse es el mejor sentimiento del mundo... Te deja sin aliento, incómodo, con el corazón latiendo tan fuerte que parece que se te va a escapar, con el estómago del revés, y aun así... aun así cielo, cuando ves a esa persona, sabes que nunca quieres dejar de sentirte así. El amor verdadero hace que cualquier cosa sea posible. Es magia, cielo, la magia más pura que existe."_ **(3)**

And just like that, Regina _knows._

 

* * *

 

Next day, Regina asks Daniel to accompany her in her ride through the fields, and doesn't stop until they reach her favorite apple tree. It's a damp day, and when Regina dismounts, foregoing Daniel's help, her boots make a squelch like sound on the wet grass. The air smells sweet, of ripe apples and the almost there scent of rain, and Regina gives herself some time to appreciate the scenery and the nature around her. It's not cold but it will be soon, once the sun starts to set, and Regina's thankful for the warmth of her coat.

A few silent moments pass, and Regina looks at Daniel, standing by the tree with his arms crossed over his chest and pointedly not looking at her, but rather at the fields before him. He's terrible at being dismissive, though, and Regina can tell just by the stiffness of his shoulders that he wishes they were talking. With that thought in mind, Regina removes her riding gloves, pats her clothes down as if removing invisible dirt from them, and takes one long, purposeful step towards Daniel.

"Is there something wrong, Daniel?" she questions.

Daniel looks up, his hands tightening into fists and his stance almost immediately turning defensive. "No, milady," he answers, his tone polite. "I hope nothing in my behavior has given you that impression, milady."

Regina would scoff, if only mother hadn't instilled in her the idea that it's thoroughly unladylike. Instead, she crosses her own arms over her chest, and speaks loud and clear. "Yes, it has, as a matter of fact. I do not appreciate your tone."

"Milady, I was under the impression that I was being perfectly polite. Do excuse me if it hasn't come across as such; I will do my best to correct it in the future, milady."

"It _has_ been polite," Regina proclaims, her tone far from elegant as she feels irritation crawling up her spine. "Precisely!"

"Would you rather I was rude then, milady?" Daniel asks, and even if seemingly angry, there's a glimpse of the Daniel she's known in his voice, of _her_ Daniel.

"I rather you were like you used to," she tells him, completely honest, bordering on a confession. "I thought maybe we were friends."

Regina feels flustered, somewhere between irritated and broken open, but Daniel's looking at her as if he doesn't understand her for the first time since they met, and he's standing what feels like worlds away. She wishes he would stand on her personal space and say something impertinent that would prompt her into an answer that would make him smile.

"Friends, milady?" Daniel counters. At that, he takes a step closer towards her, and they're not far but they're not close either, the five or six steps between them creating what feels like impossible breach between them. Then, before Regina can find quite how to answer him, he finishes his statement with, "Surely not friends. After all, I'm no one, _just_ the new stable boy."

"Oh, is that why you - but that's hardly fair of you! I was talking to my mother and she's, well, she's... you know what, boy? I owe you no explanations, I will refer to you as I please." As she says this, Regina wishes to turn her back on him, but she refuses to give him the pleasure of seeing her stand down. She lifts her chin up instead, and not for the first time, she hates the feeling that accompanies the gesture.

Daniel recoils from her, as if wounded, and says, "Then perhaps it will be better if I'm nothing but polite when addressing you, milady."

"Perhaps." Her chin is still up, high and might, but her tone is small when she speaks. She didn't want this to go like this, but she doesn't know how to say what she needs, what she wants when she knows the feeling to be so completely inadequate to her station and her persona. She's afraid of making a confession if she speaks too much, and she wishes Daniel would just know what lays in her heart.

The wind picks up a little around them, and Regina realizes they’ve been silent for a while now, and that every second that's passed she's made herself smaller. She finds herself with her own arms around her, her legs tightly locked together and her eyes settled on the ground below her, her shoulders hunched to bring her neck closer to her shoulders. She must look impossibly tiny, and fairly unattractive. The air is colder now, and Regina feels her hands beginning to redden, so she hides them under her arms and considers leaving the field and going back to the manor. There's nothing much to gain from this little trip anymore, anyway. She lifts her head up to express her desires, and it is only then that she notices that Daniel has been moving all along, and that he's walking towards her with a couple of apples in his hands.

He steps close to her, far too close, and suddenly the scent of apples is mixing with something else entirely, the musk of leather and horses, and something she can't quite her finger on. Regina has to stretch herself to look into Daniel's eyes when he's this close, and as she does so, he places an apple in her hand, their ungloved fingers touching softly as he does.

Daniel smiles then, something small and nearly shy that only curls one side of his mouth. "I thought perhaps one of those princes or counts at your birthday had caught your fancy, and you didn't wish to speak with someone like me anymore, milady."

Regina twists her lips angrily to the side, exasperated, and rolls her eyes. "Nobody _caught my fancy._ "

"But I thought you were going to marry a prince, or a king."

"Perhaps I won't."

Daniel's smile curves up completely then, and it lights up his eyes, making soft laughter lines appear at their corners. "Milady, I wish I could give you everything that you deserve, but I can never be a prince, or a king."

"I don't want you to be, Daniel."

His hands, when they rest on her waist, feel wide and strong, and far better than any other hands had when she'd been dancing away at her birthday. Her breath stutters, but when Daniel presses his lips to hers, she's smiling, and the touch makes her tingle all over. He makes as if to break away after the briefest of touches, but she follows his movement, standing on her tiptoes and tumbling into his arms so he's forced to embrace her fully so she won't fall. She doesn't lose contact with his lips, but rather deepens it, presses a hungry mouth to his and wraps her arms around his neck, locking them further into the embrace and dropping her apple to the ground.

"Milady... Regina," he whispers between their lips when they do break apart. They're still holding each other, and Daniel has his hand on Regina's cheek, his warm fingers soft on her skin but enough to make goose bumps crawl all the way down to her toes.

"Don't go please, not just yet."

He doesn't, but rather kisses her again, and Regina falls into it, desperately, her lips at the center of an onslaught of sensations cursing through her body, and her heart beating away wildly inside her chest. She feels fantastically aware of her body, grounded, warm and excited, the foreign lick of heat languidly lapping at her belly making her shiver.

She's free, finally, free in this open field under the setting sun, surrounded by the warmth of a boy she's sure she loves, away from the small, tight spaces her life has been thus far. With Daniel's arms around her, and his lips above hers, there are no cellars, no tasteless meals, no secret talks with her father, no inadequacy and no shame.

 _This then,_ she thinks, _this is what happiness feels like._

* * *

 

 

The next year Regina lives as if in a dream, full of secret meetings and stolen kisses that slowly but steadily give way to bolder touches. Her body, which up until now has been nothing but a source of pain and scrutiny, suddenly becomes tangible in a way she never could have dreamed it to be. She looks at herself in the mirror more pointedly, and more and more asks to be left alone when she’s bathing, finding an embarrassing yet simple pleasure in exploring herself with her own hands, in pressing her fingers over naked skin, right where Daniel has touched her through her clothes before. She pictures his hands on her stomach, at the back of her neck, sliding down her collarbones, cupping her full breasts, settling low inside her thighs, and blushes impossibly as her mind refuses to let go of the images.

Mother, too, looks at her under a different gaze, and Regina wonders what it is exactly that she’s seeing, if perhaps she can spy the change in her spirit, and how it has translated into her body. For a few days after Daniel had first kissed her, Regina had been careless enough to eat ravenously, as if a new kind of hunger had awakened within her, and mother had looked on disapprovingly until Regina had remembered herself, and had gone back to her usual behavior.

Regina finds it’s easier to behave properly for her mother’s eyes now, though. With the forbidden freedom of secret love to support her, she tightens herself to her mother’s rules with a certain fluidity that she’s lacked all of these years. She puts an extra effort to be elegant and graceful, to speak at appropriate times, to lower her head when mother talks to her but bring it up higher when she’s the one addressing someone, and she excels in her lessons with practiced ease. The image of a perfect little lady is almost easy to maintain when there’s the promise of a completely different kind of freedom outside the manor, so for a year, there are no punishments, no nights spent in the darkness of the cellar, no forbidden meals.

Of course, there’s a razor sharp edge to Regina’s happiness. She’s constantly worried that mother will eventually find out about her escapades, and about what her reaction to her daughter’s truth will be. Occasionally, she likes to picture her mother being angry but eventually understanding, realizing that her daughter’s happiness dangles in the arms of love and not power, but the images last only seconds, soon to be replaced by the truth of her mother’s stern expression, of the twist of her lips whenever she is reminded of the poverty she overcame by marrying into nobility. It seems impossible to her that she will accept Regina becoming something less than what she is, and so she worries.

Nonetheless, there’s Daniel, and the newfound reality of their affair making Regina feel full of life. Once the awkwardness of their first encounters is through, they find an easy balance about their talks, and under darkening fields and at the safe haven of the stables they talk, and touch, and enjoy each other. Daniel speaks freely of his simple life, and about his desires of following in his grandfather’s footsteps, or perhaps owning a farm and his own horse. He wants family, a big one, too, and repeats the words his old grandfather had said to Regina on his deathbed, about family and a good meal being the true only good thing one can desire to have at the brink of death.

Regina doesn’t speak so freely about her life at home, but she does find it easy to regal Daniel with tales about her loving father, of the stories he would read to her before bed when she was little, of the way they danced at her last birthday, of how his voice is still the most soothing sound she’s ever known. When Daniel asks about her wishes, though, she realizes that it’s hard for her to answer truthfully, and stutters with her own words.

“I guess I was going to be a queen,” is what she says. She’d been looking at Daniel up until then, at the way a ray of sun was illuminating just one side of his face, the shadow of the tree above them covering the rest of his features. When she speaks now, she looks away and at the fields in front of her, squeezing the hand of Daniel’s she's holding, just to remind herself of where she is. “That’s what mother always says; _you will endure, dear, I will make a queen out of you yet._ ”

Daniel doesn’t speak for a while then, probably tapping into her pensive mood. Instead, he busies himself by taking her hand to his mouth and pressing small kisses all around it, to her knuckles and the point of her fingers, and then to the center of her palm. The simple touch heats Regina up, warms her until something tight settles low on her belly. She sighs, her eyes falling shut and then barely opening at half mast, and when she realizes that she’s been sitting rigidly since Daniel asked his question, she relaxes her shoulders until she’s resting comfortably against the trunk of the tree they’re resting at. She feels Daniel’s lips turn into a smile above the skin of her palm, which he kisses again softly, nuzzling his nose. Her sighs feel like breathless pants then, and they only keep going when Daniel uses both his hands to travel up her arm and pull the fabric of her coat away far enough for him to press a kiss to the inside of her wrist. That grants him a surprised gasp, immediately after which Regina bites the side of her lip both to hide a smile and stop anymore sounds.

“What do you want, milady?” Daniel asks then, whisper soft, his words leaving his mouth and pressing against the skin of Regina’s wrist as if they were tangible fingers.

Regina looks back at him, a small turn of her neck down and to the left, and the sight of his eyes looking up at her from where he’s still leaning over her skin is almost too much to bear. She leans forward, frees her lip from her teeth and leaves her mouth parted, silently asking to be kissed.

Daniel doesn’t relent, though, and asks again, “What do _you_ want, Regina?”

She doesn’t answer, though, and instead launches forward towards him and locks his lips in a kiss, effectively shutting him up. He lets her get away with it, and when they stumble onto the ground from the strength of Regina’s impulse, they laugh and kiss at the same time, falling easily into each other with an ever growing familiarity. They kiss over and over again, and the laughter only dies when Regina grabs onto one of Daniel’s big, warm hands and presses it to her breast, so it’s cupping it through her clothes.

Daniel is the one to gasp this time, his eyes growing wide and his tone hiding a warning when he murmurs, “Regina…”

He’s blushing, and it never ceases to amuse Regina how despite his usual boldness of word, he’s far shier than she is when it comes to her body. She wants to be touched so badly, though, and he’s so soft with her, and feels so good against her that she can’t help but push herself into his hands.

“I want you to touch me, Daniel, that is what I want.”

Daniel groans, and whispers, “ _Not_ what I was asking, milady.” But then he doesn’t give Regina a chance to answer, and instead kisses her again, and again, and again, caressing her softly above clothes that Regina wishes they weren't wearing.

That encounter they finish with all their clothes on, even if Regina has to retie her thick braid so that it looks somewhat presentable. Before they part, and with cheeks still tinted red from both the cold and the daringness of their increasing physical familiarity, they share an apple, Daniel always adamant that she doesn't eat enough. Regina does wonder if he knows, if perhaps he can somehow guess at the control she's been exerting over herself for so many years now. She prefers not to think about it, and rather enjoy the offerings of fruit as part of their secret.

It's later that night, though, when Regina's alone in her bed, that she gives a real thought to the question that she's been avoiding. She doesn't know what she wants, or who she wants to be, because it has never been much of a question before. She's been trained and molded all her life to be a lady, graceful, elegant, educated, shy in the right situations and bold in other ones. She's always known that her future lay by the arm of a wealthy noble, at the head of household, and later on, by the side of children she's never been sure she wanted. No one's ever asked, and neither has Regina, because there's never been much of a choice, or even a true way of forming a complaint in her head. There is now, though, a giant, colored sign with the name Daniel on it. It both feels very close to her heart and entirely too far away from reality.

All the same, the thought doesn't leave her now that it has began to grow. It's merely the morsel of an idea, but as the days pass and her seventeenth birthday approaches, she daydreams until the fantasy becomes almost palpable. It's not only Daniel that she wants, but a whole new path that she can almost see laying before her. She thinks of reading bedtime stories to children that don't know how to quit smiling, of the fire of a stove under her unprepared, inexperienced fingers, that she will burn a thousand times before she learns to cook properly. She'll cook good meals, full of flavor and spices and fruits. She thinks of wide fields and fresh air, of open spaces that will never constrict her, of breathing freely every second of every day. She thinks of her father, somehow still by her side, smiling his prudent, kind smile while balancing his grandchildren on an old knee, or while dancing around a happy house with her, twirling her about even when they're both too old for such nonsense. Most of all, she thinks of a love that never ends, of creating every new day next to Daniel, of being secretly dragged to hidden corners because they don't know how to stop touching each other, of indulging in their feelings and in their hunger with no control.

 

* * *

 

The entire day of her seventeenth birthday, mother doesn't let her eat anything heavy, keeping her in a diet of water and two loaves of soft bread that have Regina's insides twisting uncomfortably. When the time comes to get herself in her new, extremely corseted gown, she just wants the whole night to be over already, not even the prospect of a beautiful ballroom filled with music making her excited this time.

The ball has taken a little over a fortnight to prepare, and mother, considering her old enough to take responsibility over some of the house servants and a few of the most inconsequential tasks, has had her running around for days, leaving her no time for herself whatsoever. Regina had bitten her lip nearly raw, thinking of Daniel waiting for her to light a candle up at the window of the north wing attic, which was the device they had managed to design for whenever Regina could see him outside of riding practice. Not just that, but the amount of time she has spent inside the manor with mother breathing down her neck, has her feeling caged, much more so when she hasn't had a chance to ride atop _Rocinante_ at all for the past ten days.

And yet, Regina can't say that she doesn't make a pretty sight in her ball gown this year. There's no doubt that she's a full grown woman now, and despite mother's apprehension growing up, she hasn't turned up completely bad. She may not be a pale-faced, blonde beauty, but she can't help but think that perhaps she holds her own kind of appeal, after all.

Mother catches her in front of her full length mirror right before the ball, and rather than chastising her for her vanity, she comes up to her and stands by her side, so her figure is also reflecting back to them. Regina has never seen much of her mother in herself, her appearance always leaning more to her father's side of the family, but now, standing side by side, with their shoulders thrown back and both their expressions serious but appreciative, Regina thinks she can see the long lost similarities between them. It's something about their eyes, she muses.

"You look very beautiful tonight, Regina," mother tells her, with her eyes finding hers through the mirror.

Regina smiles, unbidden, a tad unhinged with the delighted surprise of the comment. Mother's been full of compliments this past fortnight, both for her demeanor and hard work, and having her approve of looks she'd always found lacking, a little shameful, fills Regina's chest with something solid that feels very much like pride.

She turns towards her mother, and softly, looking down but not lowering her chin, she says, "Thank you, mother."

Mother spreads her arms then, and even if her expression doesn't betray any change in her demeanor, Regina has had years to train herself into understanding her mother's physical cues. Doubtlessly, she steps forward and into her mother's offered embrace, holding onto the rarely given affection with open glee. She curls herself against her mother's chest like a starved little girl, and closes her eyes to better memorize the feel of the embrace. Mother smells of expensive perfume and the fabric of her dress, and the skin of her neck, where Regina's hiding her face, feels soft and powdered against her cheek. It's not a long hug by any chance, but it's more than Regina's known in the past few years, so when she walks into the ballroom, she does so with a smile.

Once again, getting swept up in the grandeur is easy and nearly joyful, and even if Regina's mind is somewhere else, in open fields and the warmth of the arms of a stable boy, she sees the proceedings with an honest smile plastered on her face. She dances until her feet hurt, her gown swishing this way and that, and when one foreign prince tells her that she must simply try the bonbons he's brought from his land and offers one up, Regina considers that refusing would be impolite and actually let's herself enjoy the small taste of chocolate.

By the time the guests are starting to grow tired and the night is coming to an end, Regina is ready to call the whole ordeal a success. She feels particularly proud that the tasks her mother made her responsible of, even if small, have come out without a hitch. That is why, when mother walks straight towards her with what can only be described as fury tainting every single muscle on her body, Regina can't help but straighten up in pure, unbridled fear. She gasps before mother reaches her, bringing her hands to her chest in apprehension, and suddenly it seems as if there's nothing around her, no twinkling lights, no music, no deliciously smelling food, no beautiful couples gliding on the dance floor; nothing but the focus of her mother's gaze.

Despite her harsh approach, mother stands before her with something akin to a sweet smile, so no one outside of her own daughter would ever guess as to the true nature of her actual emotional state. Regina, already an expert at reading her mother's telltales, knows better than to trust her mother's fake smiles.

Mother's tone, when she finally speaks, is syrupy, loaded with the kind of danger that Regina knows precedes the worst of punishments. The fact that she doesn't know what it is that she has done to grant this fury only makes everything worse, leaving her unprepared and defenseless.

"Regina, dear, would you care to tell me what exactly it is that you spoke of with the very respectable King George?"

Regina flinches at the near physical quality on her mother's tone of voice, and opens her eyes wide before throwing her gaze around the ballroom, looking for the so called King. For the life of her she can't remember who the man is, or why he is so important as to anger mother so. She follows mother's gaze to a tall, serious looking man clad in a deep red coat, and reminds herself of the dance they'd shared at some point during the night. He's old enough to be her father, and Regina carefully remembers him asking her for a dance with something akin to boredom, probably out of compromise to their hosts than out of true desire of sharing the floor with her. Regina hadn't liked being in his arms, and she'd found him mostly unpleasant until he'd showed genuine affection when talking about his son, the rambunctious prince James waiting for him back home, or so he'd said.

"Mother, I-" Regina begins, stumbling over her words and bringing her gaze back to her mother's. "His son, perhaps some shallow pleasantries, barely anything, mother, why-"

"If you must know, my dear foolish daughter, he was to issue a proposal tonight," mother tells her. "That won't be happening anymore; you must have done _something._ "

"A proposal? Mother, what-"

"You're starting to be too old to marry Regina, and I told you that you would be queen. Old King George is in need of a second wife."

"King George?" Regina questions, not managing to hide her surprise. The man is old, ugly and the last person Regina would ever want for a husband. The thought of his hands on her is enough to make her gag, no matter how many crowns the man holds above his head.

Regina shakes her head, as if that can get the idea away from it, and the manic feeling behind her gesture provokes mother to take a step forward and hiss, "Do not make a scene, Regina. Perhaps the man is not a complete fool and he's right in saying that you're nothing but a little girl."

Another step and mother is right in her space and reaching forward, pressing her hands above Regina's waist in a gesture that probably manages to look tender from the outside, but that Regina knows is nothing but part of a thorough scrutiny.

"Small hips, he said," mother states, her eyes following her own hands on Regina's body. "He may be right in saying you will end up dying during childbirth, even if I like to believe that my daughter would be stronger than that."

When mother looks back at her, Regina's blinking rapidly, doing her best at stopping the tears that her tight throat are announcing. She knows better than to make such an spectacle out of herself in public, but the shame that her mother's words are bringing forward is hard to fight. Mother is appraising her with such contempt that Regina can barely stand to stay still inside their faux-embrace, much more so when one of mother's hands leaves her waist to travel upwards to her face and lay it at her cheek, letting her thumb travel until it's pressing right on top of Regina's small scar, above her lip. That scar has always been a physical representation of the flaws mother saw in her, and Regina knows very clearly the statement mother is trying to make.

"I guess it was stupid of me to think that your charm would be enough to grant you the husband you require," mother muses, almost absentmindedly. Then, mysteriously, she adds, "You better be thankful that you have your loving mother looking out for your best interests."

"Mother?"

"Now go to your bedchambers; you have done enough for today."

"But mother, the guests, the ball-"

"Don't argue with your mother, Regina."

Acquiescing, quietly, Regina bows her head and murmurs, "Yes, mother."

She frees herself of her mother's touch while trying to hide a sigh of relief, and still looking down, walks away from the ballroom as fast as it's polite to do so.

Back in her room, Regina paces. She walks rhythmically from one end to the room all the way to the other, sidestepping her bed so she can end by her vanity, and then back towards the door, her dress swishing away as her steps become increasingly faster. Her hands are hovering before her, stomach-high, and she's wringing them, probably wrinkling the silk of her long gloves. The movement is as unconscious as the occasional roll of her shoulders, or the quick breathing that has her chest heaving unsteadily over the cleavage of her corset, signs of anxiety and nervousness. Tears are threatening her, but they seem to be trapped inside her watery eyes, refusing to come down her face.

She feels ashamed, and she's not particularly sure why. She's done nothing wrong, not this time, especially if whatever it is that's so wrong with her has saved her from a proposal from an old king with gnarly hands and small, untrustworthy eyes. And yet. _And yet._

Mother had been so uncharacteristically loving for the past few days, even more so at the beginning of the night that Regina hadn't even thought to be wary of such demonstrations. But mother's getting her ready for marriage, and now her relentless fantasies of a future with Daniel seem more far away than ever. _What do you want, Regina?_ He'd asked. And all Regina wants right now is to see him, and to stop feeling worthless, ugly, a disappointment that will never amount to anything much at all.

Feeling flustered and disturbed, she makes up her mind carelessly, and throwing a cape over herself, steps outside her bedchambers. The manor is full of guests, so she takes advantage of the general confusion and makes her way to the attic to light a candle that hopefully Daniel will see, never mind the late hour. Then, feeling particularly daring, she stops by the kitchens and steals a pear and a handful of those expensive nuts mother had brought especially for grandfather Xavier, and then eats them in big mouthfuls as she makes her way outside and towards the stables. She runs, trying to hide herself in the shadows and hoping that no one will catch sight of her.

Soon enough, she enters the darkened stables, where she's greeted by eerie silence. She's fiercely disappointed, but at the same time, she's already breathing better just by being here. It's a little cold, so she brings her cape closer to herself and lets her steps guide her towards a sleeping _Rocinante,_ and knowing that it won't bother him, she puts her gloved hand between his eyes, and allows herself to hug his neck and rest against his fur. Then, and only then, the tears that have been sticking to her eyes all this time come down her cheeks, wet and silent.

Daniel finds her in that exact same spot when he appears, Regina's not particularly sure how much later. She feels entirely too tired, but Daniel's voice whispering a quiet and wondrous _Regina?_ along with the candle he's carrying are all the signs of comfort she needs to move away from _Rocinante_ and run towards Daniel with a spring on her step. She tumbles into his arms, nearly knocking the candle away from his hands in her haste.

"Regina, what happened?" Daniel whispers against her ear, his arms now firmly locked around her waist, bringing her in against his chest tight and sure.

"Nothing, everything, I'm not sure," Regina answers against the skin of his neck.

Daniel doesn't push, and instead allows them both to fall to the floor so they're sitting down while still locked in their embrace. Regina watches how the fabric of her skirt bulges impossibly around her, making her spare a second in the thought that her gown is going to get magnifically dirty. Rebelliously, the idea makes her smile.

Sitting down and with her face hidden somewhere against Daniel's collarbones, Regina breathes in and out slowly, and calms down enough that her tears banish and her hands stop shaking. She's still nervous, and this time she notices her fingers playing with the top of Daniel's thin shirt, the loose threads that tie it together on his neck undone, as if he'd carelessly thrown anything he could on before running to her. Like this, his skin is right under her fingers, and Regina blushes thinking that she wishes she'd taken her gloves off, so that she could touch him. With that thought in mind, Regina moves her head away far enough so that she can look up and into Daniel's eyes, half-lidded in concern. She holds his gaze, and realizes that her fantasies and hopes are almost tangible when he's this close, even if her mother's words tonight have made her feel like her future with Daniel is as far from reality as ever. It feels as if every dream she has constructed will be ripped off from her - by her mother's magic, her anger, or worse yet, her dreams of a better future for Regina - but that if she holds on to the palpable truth that is Daniel and his arms around her, then maybe there's a chance for them after all.

Daniel opens up his mouth, as if ready to say something now that Regina's been looking at him so steadily, but Regina stops him with a kiss, molding her mouth to his in a way that's already familiar to them both. She's bordering on desperate though, so she clings to his neck, brings one hand to his cheek so he'll stay close and kiss her long and sweet.

They break away only after bringing each other into the kiss a few times over, but when they finally do, Regina whispers softly in the small distance between their parted lips, "You."

"What, milady?" Daniel asks, and he's whispering too, as if the quiet around them is too precious to break.

"You asked me what it was that I wanted, and it's you," she tells him, her eyes darting nervously up towards his. They look beautiful in the low light of the single candle, and fairly surprised at Regina's words.

"Milady, I-"

Regina chuckles, cutting his speech short and shaking her head as if she can't quite believe what she's saying. "I want a great deal many things, to tell you the truth; soft, light dresses that let me breathe properly, and shorter hair, I think, something easy that won't take hours to put up. A family, and I want to learn to saw and cook and - Isn't it silly? I barely know how to do anything, Daniel, I'll make the worst wife."

He smiles, brings her mouth to his in a short kiss that makes her yelp and her words quiet down. "I could have easily told you that, milady."

She huffs but he's laughing, laughing freely without a care in the world and Regina's never heard anything quite so precious.

"What else? What else do you want, Regina?"

"I want - I want to eat," she confesses. "I want to eat when I'm hungry." Her voice trembles with her statement, and she hates how she can feel her words hovering in the air before her, like a shadow of a persecution she's never fully understood. They're not the center of her little outburst, though, and so she ploughs through them and continues, saying, "Right now, Daniel, right now all I want is you."

Her hands, still firmly set upon Daniel's neck, don't shake, but instead lower down to his shoulders where she holds on tight, digging her fingers in. Daniel's intake of breath clues her into the fact that he understands the full meaning behind her words, and she smiles, blushing profusely, but kissing him without a single doubt in her mind. He follows her lead, presses his fingers tighter on her waist, and only breaks away when she's tangling her hands on the front of his shirt to bring him closer still.

"Regina, milady, we don't have to - we - we have all the time in the world," he tells her, words soft and eyes even softer.

"Do we really? And even if that is true, Daniel, I don't - I just. I love you."

"And I love you as well, and I will love you for as long as I'm breathing."

Regina sighs into him, and the sound travels all the way through her, relaxing her shoulders and making her hands hold on to him a little less tightly, with a little less desperation. When she speaks next, there's steel in her voice. "Then we may as well be married already, boy, and I fail to see why you would refuse to touch your wife."

He laughs into her mouth as he leans over to kiss her, and his breath mingles easily with hers. "You are one stubborn, insufferable woman, little lady," he tells her, even as he's bringing both her gloved hands up to his mouth and kissing her knuckles. "And the truth is I wouldn't even know where to begin."

She doesn't let the statement deter her, and instead she merely plucks her hands away from his and removes her gloves, careless of where they end up when she tosses them away. She does away with her cape as well, letting it fall down her uncovered shoulders and all the way down to the ground. That done, she turns around so her back is to Daniel, and almost breathlessly, she informs him, "It unties at the back, you will have to do it."

For a short moment, Daniel doesn't move, and Regina worries that she has stepped over his boundaries, that he will think less of her for asking something like this out of wedlock, or maybe even that he won't want her after all. Then Daniel does touch her, and any form of doubt gets erased from her heart and her mind as the pads of his fingers skid carefully over her shoulders, the smallest of caresses. He moves his fingers all the way down to her bare arms, and then puts his lips to the back of Regina's neck and she gasps. She feels hot all over just from the feeling of velvety lips on her skin, and as she closes her eyes, she holds onto the feeling and lets it wash over her skin, forgetting anything that isn't his lips or his hands.

"You look very beautiful tonight, milady," he whispers, and his words, too, are a caress on her skin.

She smiles, realizing that it's the first time she's heard those words coming from Daniel's mouth, and that they mean more than all of the vapid compliments she's received during the night. She sighs her thank you, and then very easily relaxes against his chest as his hands travel down her arms to intertwine their fingers together.

"If you ever want me to stop, mi-"

"But I won't," she states, turning her head around enough so that she can catch his eyes. "Trust me that I will not want you to stop."

That prompts a smile to appear on Daniel's handsome face, and after he kisses her hard and deep, he lets his fingers wander down her back and to the fastenings of her corset. He seems as clueless as Regina feels, and the untying of her gown is s source of quiet, shy laughter for them. Regina likes that, though, that they're laughing together and that this doesn't feel like an obligation, or duty, or like some awkward fumble in pursuit of some kind of quick pleasure. She loves this man with all she has in her heart, and his hands on her body and untying her dress or trying his best at undoing her complicated hairdo make her pulse quicken, and make her feel hot and bothered in a way that has her breathing rapidly.

Awkward fumbles end up with Regina standing naked before Daniel, skin glowing under the single light of one small candle. She blushes terribly but then so does he as he looks at her, as if he can't quite believe that she's standing before him with nothing but her loose hair half covering her breasts. She shivers from the cold, and he brings her closer to him, timid as he places his hands on her skin but bolder when she just presses up and close into him, when she can't help but let a quiet whimper ripple from her mouth when his fingers trace up the nubs of her spine. He kisses her as he touches her, his hands so very careful as he explores her now without the constraints of clothes, and Regina allows herself to indulge in the new feelings, biting at Daniel's lower lip when his hand squeezes softly at one of her breasts, his thumb absentmindedly finding her nipple.

Regina's shier about divesting Daniel of his clothes than she is about being naked herself, and while she's daring enough to remove his shirt, she lets him take care of his own breeches and even stops herself from looking down too soon. Daniel's own embarrassment spurs her on rather than deters her, though, so when he comes close again she finds the small of his back with her hands and allows them to travel down to the toned muscles of his buttocks, biting her own lower lip when he laughs into her neck and distracts himself with kissing his way up to the back of her ear. Daniel feels strong under her hands, and his skin, while rough in places, is silky smooth in others, and always impossibly warm. She ends up with her hands around his upper arms and kissing his lips yet again with more abandonment by the second.

They find some hay to lay down on somewhat comfortably after a while, and while on her back, Regina watches all of Daniel as he lays down half on top of her and half on the ground. She feels on fire, ready for whatever it's going to happen between them, her skin tingling with anticipation, a little unsure of whether this is actually supposed to feel this good. She's heard all sort of stories from the maids, after all, and while secretly scared of the pain, she can't say that she feels anything that isn't pleasure at this point.

Daniel settles above her, and the heavy and hot pressure of him on her hip is strange but not unwelcome. Her body seems to react to it so very nicely, the space between her thighs feeling unusually wet and warm.

"You will tell me if I hurt you," he speaks very seriously, his eyes on hers and his hands ever so slowly tracing a pattern from her hip to her breast and back again.

She nods, frowning, and mocking his own seriousness replies with, "Yes, sir, I will tell you."

He laughs even as he kisses her, murmuring something about spoiled little ladies. Regina arches up to meet his mouth, and as she does so she very naturally parts her legs so that he can settle between them. He pushes inside her ever so carefully, kissing her all the while, and overwhelmed by the new sensation, Regina forgets that this is supposed to hurt at all. The feeling of him inside her is foreign but not unpleasant, and she finds herself laughing into his mouth just by thinking about what they're doing. Then he moves against her, and her laughter dies to give its place to a pant.

"Are you-"

"Yes," she whispers. "Do keep doing that, Daniel, please."

So he keeps moving, and Regina feels herself unravel as Daniel's movements turn less careful, his hand now firmly holding onto her thigh as her legs wrap up around his waist. Regina groans into his mouth, and finds that it feels better when she meets his thrusts with movements of her own hips, and that the higher her legs settle, the more intense the feeling is. She feels so very warm, all of her body on fire and tuned into Daniel's movements, her body so wet where she's connected to Daniel.

He's moaning above her, his body now curved away from hers and his muscles tense. He has his eyes closed tightly, but when Regina touches his face with a sweaty palm, he opens them up slowly and looks right into hers, the darkness of his pupils surprising and alluring at the same time. Something seems to break within him then, and with a shuddered groan he stills against her and shakes, his muscles contracting before he falls upon her, panting into her neck.

Almost immediately, he makes as if to move away, mouthing a tired and ragged, "I'm so sorry, milady, I didn't mean to-"

"No, wait," she says, holding onto the small of his back to keep him in place. "Stay right there, please," she pleads. And then, looking into his eyes, "You feel nice."

He bites his lower lip, looking at her as if he can't quite believe her, and with an amused smile he mutters, "Whatever you wish, Regina, my love."

Regina shivers at the words falling from his lips, and her body only steadies when he's touching her again, his lips at her collarbones and his broad hands at her hips and stomach, his fingers nearly ticklish as they climb up her body. Eventually, though, he's moving again within her, his passion reawakened between Regina's thighs. She sighs into it, her wet center pulsing for something she can't quite understand. Her body's throbbing fantastically, but she can't help but feel as if its reaching for something more, trying to take her somewhere as she rocks further into Daniel's movement.

Her legs wrap back around his waist, tight and sure, and when a particularly slow thrust has her moaning in pleasure, she digs her nails into the swell of Daniel's backside, trying to make him stay right where he is.

"Stay, stay right there, please," she whimpers into his mouth.

He stays still as she asks, buried deep within her even as his muscles are clearly straining to try and move. It's Regina who moves then, circling her hips against his own so the feeling within her keeps growing and growing right where Daniel's seethed inside her. Her whole body is trembling with anticipation, as she shamelessly writhes to find something that she can't put a name to, but that her whole being's craving in the most primitive of ways. She gives into the feeling, and suddenly the unwavering pleasure mounts inside her, crawling its way from between her legs until she's quivering with it, her body taut and her mouth parted in a silent moan.

Daniel holds her up with a hand under the small of her back, and as she begins to come down from her rush of feeling, he moves again, freely and without restraint, riding out Regina's climb to pleasure with her as he finds his own peak again.

It's a long time before they both find their breaths again, now laying side by side and staring up at the dark ceiling. Their lone candle has extinguished some time ago, and the stables around them feel intimate and warm, when just hours before they had felt eerie to Regina's saddened senses.

Regina is the first one to fully recover, though, and before she has time to consider another path of action, she sits up and lets her hands search for Daniel's skin yet again. He rises to meet her, and as they kiss messily, he runs roughened hands through her unruly locks, pressing wordless promises against her lips. He does his best at asking about her well-being, at being worried, but she's too giddy and too starved for his touch, so they only end up laughing as they tumble into each other again. Daniel wishes for a better bed for her even as he's learning that his mouth can do wonders on her skin, and she only reassures him again and again that all she needs is this, the small comfort of dried grass at her back and the rich scent of his skin all around her.

They have to part eventually, before the sun rises on a new day so Regina can hide herself in her bedchambers as if she'd spent the whole night there. They do so sadly, clinging to each other, and once Regina is running back to the manor, the laces of her gown hardly tied at her back and her hair a loose mess above her shoulders, all she can think about is her father's words about love, for love must be indeed magic, since she feels stronger than any of her mother's spells.

 

* * *

 

Next day, Regina wakes up tired after barely an hour of sleep. She looks a little haggard, rough around the edges, and if that helps her mother think that her sleeplessness is caused by regret over her lack of success with King George last night, then all the better. The truth is that Regina feels sore between her legs, even if there was no blood last night, but the slight discomfort is almost pleasing to her, a soft reminder of the lover waiting for her outside her stifling home. She has to fight herself not to smile all throughout the day.

Time passes easily, quietly, Regina's new found hope more corporeal than ever when her life is now filled with secret meetings full of passion. She doesn't get nearly enough time with Daniel, but what little moments they do get make them bolder with each other, the shyness of their first time together gone away and replaced by the desperation to explore each other in different ways. Regina indulges in their pleasure, becomes a free spirit when she's naked and next to Daniel, realizes that the body that has felt like a prison all her life is actually a boundless source of delight. She's in love, so very in love, and in her mind, she's already Daniel's wife.

Despite her best efforts, it must somehow be noticeable, since the next night father sneaks into her room with an offering of dried grapes and chocolate, he tells her:

"You seem very happy, _cielo._ "

Regina says nothing, not daring to speak her secret even in the quiet darkness of her room, not even to her father. Instead, she smiles, pliant, and eats what father offers hungrily, unrestrained. She _is_ happy, and she's done with being starved.

"Daddy," she asks eventually, food now gone and hands hovering nervously over her bedspread. "You love me, don't you? You will always love me?"

Her question surprises him, she can tell, but she can hardly explain that she knows her love for Daniel may just loose her mother's affections, and that while that's a sacrifice she's willing to make, she couldn't bear to have her loving father turn his back on her. She thinks that, perhaps, father will be happy too if he doesn't have to be in this suffocating manor anymore.

Despite his surprise, father's answer doesn't take a moment to come, and when father speaks, he does so with a clear, unwavering voice. " _Por supuesto, mi cielo, yo siempre te querré. Siempre."_ **(4)**

He leans forward to place a kiss to her forehead and a hand to her cheek, and with his smooth voice guiding her dreams, she falls asleep with a smile on her face.

 

* * *

 

For all of Regina's worries, mother doesn't seem to take notice of any change within her. Whether it is because she's paying less attention to her or because Regina has actually gotten good at deflecting she can't be sure, but she's thankful for the reprieve. Mother seems almost content these days, and while she's not in any way more affectionate towards her, she doesn't take her clumsiness or transgressions as seriously as she has all these past years.

Regina does constantly fear her mother's plans about making her a queen. Mother's definitely persuasive, her magic much more so, and Regina has no doubts that she will have her plans fulfilled, and that eventually there will be a marriage proposal Regina won't be able to accept. Daniel seems confident that they will have no trouble escaping such fate, and even seems a bit appalled that she won't even try to tell her mother about them.

"You don't know her, Daniel," she insists, even as he plies her with kisses that she's learned to crave, and with hands that are already entirely too familiar with her body.

"Perhaps not, but she _is_ your mother Regina, surely she wants you to be happy."

"Yes, my dear, but it is her idea of happiness that terrifies me."

Regina is so happy, though, too happy to see the telltales of her mother's demeanor changing towards her. Her easygoingness makes Regina grow slack, think herself free of yesteryear punishments, think that perhaps mother is too tired of holding onto the idea of a perfect daughter she clearly doesn't have. In her mindlessness, Regina even refuses to be surprised when she starts feeling the brunt of her mother's magic on her again, and it isn't until the onslaught of accusations is too much to take that Regina realizes that she may have to pedal back and work to retain her gracefulness and quiet demeanor yet again.

After a period of near exemption, though, it seems to Regina that it's far too hard to go back to where she once was. Where before she would lower her eyes and shimmer down, she finds herself talking back to her mother, shouting at her about freedom, dreams and hopes she should never disclose. Mother would be happier thinking that Regina's wishes match her own, but Regina's voice has been lowered for so many years that she finds herself shouting at the worst of times.

It feels as if mother enjoys provoking her, though. More and more she's followed by her stern voice filled with stoic criticism, with truths that weigh heavily on Regina's back. _You ride like a man; a lady is meant to be graceful and elegant; all the other girls your age are married; I had such high hopes for you, Regina._

Even if Regina doesn't mean them to, her mother's words ail her heart, making it feel heavy inside her chest. She's her mother, after all, and she's spent a lifetime trying to be worthy of her love. Mother grows harsher and harsher, though, and so Regina finds herself being more careless than ever and running to Daniel even when it feels too dangerous. She's so very in edge, so sure that mother is going to destroy her dreams that she clings to him with desperation, finding in the imaginary picture of a future built with Daniel all the abandonment she can.

It's after one of her late night visits to Daniel that mother finds her running inside the manor, her clothes somewhat dirty but her hair and face put together well enough that she won't suspect about what exactly she's been doing. Regina gasps at the sight of the looming threat that her mother poses, but when leather binds appear around her arms and hold her in place, she doesn't have the strength to fight them, and merely looks down and lets herself be led by forces she can't understand.

"No struggling, there's a good girl," mother tells her. "I do wish we didn't have to resort to this kind of measures again, Regina."

Regina says nothing, letting her pleading _then let's not_ die on her tongue at the sight of the open door of the cellar before her. It's been two years since she stepped foot inside that place, but when mother throws her in and closes the door behind her, she realizes that she hasn't forgotten, and that it is only more confined now that she knows what it feels like to not think of it. Her breath quivers, shakes and without a second thought, she finds herself screaming, her lungs releasing her fear through the rippling of her voice. She yells for hours, and when she finally falls down, exhausted, tears running down her face, she realizes that the whole floor is covered in sticky, moldy wine and shards of glass, as if all the old, forgotten bottles inside the place had shattered around her.

Mother leaves her to wither inside the cellar for three days, and when she drags her out, Regina doesn't have the strength to stay upright. She passes out before the open door of the cellar, and the last thing she sees before her eyes close, is her mother's disappointed expression.

Regina wakes up blearily not sure how much time later, and through her fogginess, she can't help but be both surprised and apprehensive when she finds mother sitting by her bedside. Mother's smile is stony and deceptive, but Regina is far too tired for games, and she finds herself wishing for her mother's approval, if she can't have her love.

"Careful, my darling, you had quite an eventful few days."

Regina wants to huff, or maybe snort, do something unladylike to impress onto her mother just what she thinks about her statement. She's exhausted, though, her stomach is vying for her attention by cramping painfully, and her hands feel itchy and uncomfortable. She makes as if to scratch the palm of her right hand, and mother stops her with a swipe of purple magic that almost makes Regina dry heave.

"Your hands are hurt, Regina."

Regina looks down, confused, and finds her hands wrapped up in loose bandages. She remembers the broken glass, and wonders if she'd just laid her palms on it carelessly in her frustration. She smiles sheepishly, and like the good girl she knows how to be, she rests her itchy hands back on the linens, palms up, so mother can look at how good she's being at not scratching at her wounds. Mother nods, the curve of a smile teasing the corner of her mouth.

"Now dear, do eat something."

For the next five days, mother takes care of her, sitting by her bedside and making sure she rests properly, even when Regina claims that she's already feeling better. Mother doesn't relent, though, so Regina acquiesces quietly and allows herself to be petted, groomed and fed while her insides are filled equally with warmth and wariness. She wants to believe in her mother's affections, but finds that she can't. And despite everything, mother reads to her and Regina enjoys the cadence of her voice, mother touches her forehead and cheek lovingly and Regina turns her face into the touches, mother insists that she eats properly and Regina takes small sips of tasteless soups with something akin to love filling her heart.

Mother finally deems her ready to leave her bed once her hands are healed and the family doctor has taken away the last of her bandages. Mother has been cleaning them thoroughly the past few days, her touch steady, sure and swift at ignoring Regina's quiet hisses of pain. There's not even a scar left, and Regina wishes that she could erase the invisible scars inside her chest as easily at the ones on her hands.

As a gift, perhaps as a small concession for the last few days spent in the cellar and in bed respectively, or maybe as part of one of her schemes to make Regina slip up, mother tells her that she should get up and go outside for a long ride.

"Surely you want to get as much time with _Rocinante_ as you can, dear."

Regina takes the chance and holds onto it with agonizing desperation, and when she finds herself in Daniel's arms, with the wide, open space around her, _Rocinante_ by her side and the scent of apples coming from the tree above them surrounding her, she finally lets herself breathe. Daniel is concerned and rightly so, but Regina quiets him with kisses, and brings his hands to her hips so that his touch will cleanse her of the past few days, will make her forget her wrongdoings and her punishments, and will make her think of nothing but hopes and dreams, and a future where she's happy and free.

Daniel doesn't push in his concerns, and even if Regina knows that he will interrogate her later, for now he merely reaches for the front of her riding jacket with already expert fingers ready to free her body from its confines. He hasn't managed to undo one single button before they hear a scream cutting through the silence of the fields, and soon enough, a wild horse with a little girl struggling above it is running before their eyes. Riding on pure instinct, Regina jumps atop _Rocinante,_ and soon enough rescues a little girl that has the brightest smile she's ever seen.

"I'm Snow," she tells her. "Snow White."

And as Regina smiles back at her, she can hardly guess that it will be this little girl that will crush all her hopes, and turn her into the starved, angry queen of her mother's dreams.

 

 

 

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Jacinta says: "Calm down, little one, it's nothing."  
> And then: "Little one..."
> 
> (2) Henry Sr. calls Regina "cielo", which literally means "sky" or "heaven". It's a very common term of endermeant in Spanish (and also what my dad usually calls me, so... :))
> 
> (3) "Cielo, falling in love is the best feeling in the world... It leaves you breathless, uncomfortable, with your heart beating so strong that it feels as if it will run away from you, with your stomach upside down, and yet... and yet cielo, when you see that person, you know that you never want to stop feeling like that. True love makes anything possible. It's magic, cielo, the purest magic in existence."
> 
> (4) "Of course, mi cielo, I will always love you. Always."


	2. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW1: Graphic marital rape. Please, I can't stress this enough!
> 
> TW2: Implied eating disorder.
> 
> TW3: Cora's special brand of emotional abuse.
> 
> TW4: Miscarriage.
> 
> -
> 
> AN: Translations in the notes at the end :)

Every new day that begins, Regina wakes up believing that she has a handle on things. The sun shines differently in the new room she’s inhabiting these days, the one on the east wing of the king’s palace that mother has been setting up for her so it befits her new status as future queen. There are big windows that give way to a large, beautiful balcony, and the sun shines through and illuminates the whole chamber in ways that would have astounded Regina months before. As it is, there’s little that makes Regina feel much of anything these days, much less something even close to wonder.

Regina is getting good at fooling herself, she thinks. A smile plastered on her face, wide and fake, fake, fake, and the grief is almost easy to ignore. Almost. She tells herself that she’s handling herself beautifully, that the proud gesture that won’t leave her mother’s eyes as she busies herself with preparing a wedding Regina never said yes to is more than enough to carry her through. _You will endure, dear,_ she tells herself, even if her mother’s words don’t feel like an armor she can wield against the world anymore.

The dreams that plague her nights leave her restless and overly tired, her limbs weakened along with her will. She dreams in red these days, the sight of mother’s hand around Daniel’s bright beating heart inescapable and all-consuming, the shadow of a father and a child that wanted her for themselves hunting her while she tries to run away through dreamscapes that she can’t control. She wakes up in the middle of the night, fingers tense and cheeks tear-stained, breathing heavily as she realizes that she has to face her new reality once again.

 _Daniel’s gone_. Daniel’s gone, his laughter, his kind eyes, his warm hands and that way he would scrunch his nose adorably when Regina said something that he thought funny. His voice is gone, his questions and taunts and fantasies, his dreams of a future that will never come to pass. He’s dead, gone, finished, his life over in the quiet of the night so no one will ask questions. Who is there to care for a simple stable boy, anyway? Certainly no one that matters.

Regina’s grief encompasses her whole body, running down her legs, up her arms, clogging her chest and burning her throat. She’s numb and cold, empty in ways she didn’t know she could possibly be, ignoring the way the world is reshaping itself around her. There are new rooms for her but also new clothes, dresses in light colors that mother deems appropriate for her new station, new faces that Regina has no interest in becoming acquainted with, a new family waiting for her to fill her assigned role, a new universe where she has a place that makes absolutely no sense to her. But Daniel is gone, and all she has is grief, so her world is already upside down.

Mother, though, fleets around her almost like a new woman herself. Regina watches her with hooded eyes, half a smile on mother’s lips and hands with fingers that have forgotten how to stay still, and wonders if perhaps the sight before her is her mother being actually _happy._ It should be worth it, then, her mother’s happiness coming at the price of something as worthless as the heart of a poor stable boy and Regina’s thoughtless, inconsequential dreams. Perhaps, after all, it had been foolish of her to engage in such fantasies, to indulge in desires that she knew were forbidden; after all, mother had told her what she was to become when she was very young, and Regina’s only option has only ever been to comply with her mother’s wishes. Her fanciful dreams had been nothing but that, and she is to blame for dragging Daniel into them and forcing mother’s hand into drastic actions. Mother has only ever wanted the best for her, and only Regina is at fault for daring to question her.

 

* * *

 

“Do eat something, dear,” mother presses during a quiet afternoon spent in Regina’s bedchambers.

Her table is filled up to the brim, all sorts of tasty treats before her, entirely too much, much more than she could possibly eat. Months ago the table before her may have been a dream, but now it makes her feel queasy. She’s constantly tired, and food doesn’t tempt her at all. As it is, she only ever eats in her mother’s presence, and if she was her old self she may have just laughed at the irony. She feels like a shell, though, detached and vacant, being steadily filled by equal parts despair and anger, and her stomach is adamant in rejecting anything other than weak soups and tasteless vegetables.

The day after Daniel’s death, Regina had gone on a full on eating rampage. She had walked into the kitchens and done away with everything she’d found, particularly anything sweet and gooey that she could get her hands into, as if she could fill herself with enough food to kick her misery away, to make the memories of crying over the body of her lover leave her forever. She’d made herself sick, and it had been father who had found her hidden under one of the tables of the kitchens, emptying her stomach in a discarded pot with tears falling down blotchy red cheeks, her breathing short and ragged and her fingers digging hard nails into her forearms. She’d gotten her dress dirty, and her hair had been plastered angrily to her face, damp with sweat, but father had held her anyway. He’d crawled under the table with her, never mind the old knees he was always complaining about, and had brought her close to his chest with arms that had never felt stronger, hands at the back of her head among sweaty curls. Hidden in his neck, Regina had pressed her mouth to his shoulder and she’d screamed, something angry and primitive tearing her chest open as she’d muffled the sound against father’s clothes.

She’d seemingly lost her appetite after that day, but this afternoon she carefully chooses a piece of fruit, something small and plum that she’s never tried before. Mother doesn’t even bother looking at her as she bites into the sweet, soft flesh and in a flash of disappointed fury, Regina feels a tendril of pure, unbridled hatred crawling up her spine. Her hand shakes, the mushy fruit dripping dark juice over her fingers when she squeezes a bit too hard as she regards her mother, distracted around her for the first time ever in her life. _Look at me,_ Regina wants to scream, _look at the perfect little lady that you’ve created for yourself, look at what you’ve made of me so you can be happy._ Regina looks away, sharply, and drops the fruit on the plate before her with a grimace full of distaste. Her hand is sticky from the squeezed juice, her wrist stained by a single dark and wet trickle. Regina has half a mind to lick it away just to make mother snap. She wonders what she would do now, in this palace with no known dark cellars, where she’s more careful with her magic, where Regina is to be made queen.

“My dear, _what_ are you doing? I told you to eat something,” mother berates, and Regina instinctively hides her dirty hand. The gesture is soon accompanied by a bitter smile, for not even in her anger does Regina truly dare to face her mother’s wrath. She must have learnt something, after all.

Turning her lips up with a conscious effort, Regina offers mother what she hopes is a believable smile, and with an even tone answers, “Yes, mother.”

Once mother’s not looking, Regina cleans up her hand hastily with a napkin that she discards immediately after, and feigns interest in the food before her. It’s obscene, she thinks, all this opulence that will go to waste. She thinks of Daniel offering her a single orange in the quietness of the stables, of sweet juice against her tongue, and realizes that she may never taste something quite as delicious. With a shake of her head, she picks up some dried grapes and bites into them slowly, wondering if that will be enough to please her mother and her newfound sense of purpose in life.

Regina’s managed to stomach some of the dried fruit quietly when there’s a knock at the door, promptly followed by a running, small figure traipsing its way into the room. Mother’s lips turn into a sharp grimace of disapproval once Snow White is standing before them, her cheeks tinted a healthy rosy color, her breathing ragged as if she’s run all the way over here and the green bow on her head slightly skewered. Regina knows mother can’t discipline this child the way she would like to, but she doesn’t miss mother’s hand tightening on the arm of her chair, clearly wishing she could. Snow doesn’t speak immediately, and that gives time to the guards at the door to finally react to her hasty appearance and announce a tardy but loud _Her Royal Highness, Princess Snow White!_

Regina almost chuckles.

“Oh, I’m sorry to interrupt,” Snow finally says, her tone implying that she’s truly not, “but I’ve been asked to look for you. Father wishes to see you.”

Regina blinks at her, her movement slow and precise, and her eyes study Snow’s bright smile for a second before she wonders, “The king wishes to see me?”

“Oh, both of you.”

Regina doesn’t look at mother, but it isn’t hard for her to imagine the proud twinkle in her eye. Regina feels slow and stupefied, her lack of sleep and a proper meal taking toll on her limbs and making her realize how heavy her body appears. She hasn’t seen King Leopold at all since she’s been living at the palace, her only recollection of the man that of a hasty proposal that mother had accepted in her behalf. Truth be told, Regina has heard plenty from her mother about the wedding, but nothing about her future husband, and it is only now that Regina is reminded that he’s an actual person, and perhaps the main reason why her life has taken such a turn.

“Well, girl, stand up already and let’s take a look at you,” mother says, effectively bringing Regina out of her thoughts. Regina takes a moment to gaze up at mother, already standing up and looking effortlessly regal and commanding.

Regina stands up and straightens up before mother, knowing that she will want to take a good look at her before presenting themselves before the king. She bears the scrutiny as best as she possibly can, knowing full well what mother’s eyes are looking for as they roam her figure. Regina’s standing up straight, shoulders back and chin up, her breasts encased in a tight corset that push them up even as a piece of transparent tulle creates the illusion of a demure cleavage, and her natural curls are straightened up in a tight braid around her head. Regina knows she’s looking her best, even if she has been avoiding her own reflection as of late, more prone to notice gaunt cheeks and hollow eyes than the sliver of beauty she’d dared to spy on herself over the past couple of years. The bruises caused by mother’s spells while stopping Regina’s attempts of running away are smartly covered by the thick fabrics of her dress, too, and she guesses that that’s enough to create the fantasy of a perfect future queen.

Mother doesn’t voice her approval, but she reaches forward instead, her thumb soft on Regina’s cheek. Regina manages a smile, but before she can decide whether she loves or hates the sigh of tenderness that she can spy in mother’s eyes, a small, insistent hand is tugging on her own.

“Let’s go, Regina!” Snow exclaims next to them, her unbridled enthusiasm making something pungent settle on Regina’s chest. Mother stares at the child with disdain, and it’s the first time that the expression in her face makes Regina smile.

Snow pulls from her hand with strength born of eagerness, and Regina follows as best as she can’t without falling into a run. The pace Snow sets has Regina moving fast for the first time in weeks, though, and it's almost as if her body is waking up from a very long stupor, her muscles rolling in ways that Regina hasn’t allowed them to as of late. All the movement she’s done has been atop _Rocinante_ while mindlessly trying to run away from the palace, and as such, her free time to actually ride has been sharply cut under mother’s orders. By the time they reach the closed doors of the king’s study, Regina’s smile is almost genuine.

Snow looks up at her before they enter, and for a single moment, Regina feels as if she could love this child with everything she has. She’s a charming chatterbox who has been given too much freedom, and she rules her title over everyone around her with the thoughtlessness of her privilege, but there’s something so inherently _good_ about the child that Regina feels completely unhinged whenever her thoughts turn sharp and angry, making her realize how easy it would be to snap Snow’s thin neck. Not just easy but satisfying, the chant that fills Regina’s head of _you promised me, you promised me_ such an easy way to rule her anger over Snow’s little, mindless head.

They enter the room after being announced, and King Leopold greets his daughter with a hug and both Regina and her mother with a simple bow of his head. They both answer in kind, and soon the four of them are sitting down around a small table, tea and pastries before them and silence heavy in the room. Regina dreads the idea that the responsibility of starting a conversation should fall on her, so she instead concentrates her attention on remaining still, head held high and hands resting softly on her own lap. She has to stop herself from wrinkling the fabric between her fingers, but ends up smoothing it out almost maniacally instead while her eyes dart around the room, nervous. She hasn’t been truly allowed to explore the palace, but the king’s study feels just like any other chamber, filled with too much light and adorned with simple fabrics and sturdy furniture. Regina doesn’t particularly like it, perhaps because it’s entirely too different to the manor where she grew up.

Suddenly, Regina’s no longer preoccupied with the room, as King Leopold’s slightly wavery voice fills the silence. He announces, and proudly as well, that he wishes to bestow a gift upon her, a wedding present if she will, and that she should ask for whatever her heart desires. Regina’s stunned at his words, not sure that there are any desires left in her heart, all too aware that any shred of hope she may have inside her the king won’t be able to fulfill. She hesitates, lowers her face in a way that she knows mother will frown upon, and only reacts when the king leans forward and grasps both her hands in one of his. She holds in a gasp, her throat tight as her eyes look at their twined fingers on her lap, her hands now made steady by the king’s strong grip. Someone else may have found safety in the sure touch, but all Regina sees is a cage that she’s stepped into unknowingly.

Mother utters a soft _Regina, dear…_ next to her, one that sounds loving but that Regina knows is a warning, but Regina’s too overwhelmed by everything around her. She looks up and finds the king’s eyes with her own, holds them for the first time ever. His gaze is not unkind, but his expression is a little dull, somewhat aloof. The smile he’s bestowing upon her makes Regina want to squirm, the sudden realization of the physical reality of this man sitting sourly within her. She’s to marry this man. She will be his wife, the woman at his side, on his arm, in his bed, and Regina suddenly wants to scream. She doesn’t know him, couldn’t possibly care for him even if she’d been given enough time to mourn Daniel, but she’s expected to walk down an aisle and promise her whole life to this old, lifeless lump of a man that she’s seen twice in her life. The thought makes her sick to her stomach, and maybe she hasn’t been eating very much at all because her body has already understood her new truth while her mind has been much too busy wondering about the metaphorical idea of a wedding, rather than the palpable existence of her future husband.

Next to her, mother bristles, her hand shooting forward and wrapping harshly around one of her wrists. Her grip is tight but familiar to Regina, and paired with King Leopold’s hands holding hers, Regina can’t help but think of the alliance built between her two captors.

“I would like…” Regina begins, letting the words linger before her and hoping that they may appease her mother for another minute. Regina wants a great deal many things, but as she closes her eyes to get a grip on her own emotions, all she can think about is the freedom of young love under the shadow of an apple tree. With that in mind, she opens up watery eyes and says in her firmest tone, “There is an old apple tree by father’s state, one where I would ride to whenever I could, and perhaps His Majesty would be so kind as to transplant it to the palace gardens.”

“An apple tree, my dear?” Mother questions next to her, her tone so very clearly dismissive that Regina has to bite the inside of her cheek to stop an indignant whimper.

She guesses mother would have liked her to ask for a palace, jewels, a personal guard, something exquisite and rich and befitting of a queen. If she is to be a queen though, Regina might as well be one on her own terms. She raises her gaze to her mother’s pointedly, licks her suddenly dry lips as she feels her shoulders roll back from the hunched position she’s unwittingly been reducing herself into during the conversation, and silently challenges mother to say something in the presence of the king. When she doesn’t, Regina smiles, lips satisfied with something that holds a shred of power, and then bestows a big-eyed gaze upon the king.

“Father used to take me there when I was little,” she explains, feigned naiveté tainting her voice. “I would very much like to care for it myself, if His Majesty would allow me the eccentricity.”

Silence prolongs among all of them for longer than Regina thinks she can withstand, but before she can start to wonder if her request has been a miscalculation, King Leopold laughs weakly. Regina can’t tell if he’s amused or incredulous, but she truly doesn’t have it in her to care at all as long as she gets her wish. The tree may provide a shadow of comfort, and if not, then it will serve as a reminder of everything that Regina has lost.

“That is a lovely request, wouldn’t you agree, my darling Snow?” King Leopold says finally.

“Oh yes, father, so very lovely.”

Regina wants to roll her eyes at them both, or perhaps to shout about how she’d laid naked under that tree, rolling in the grass and lost in the throes of passion, allowing herself to discover her lover’s body along with her own. Instead, she fakes her best pleased smile, swiftly ignoring mother’s angry eyes. Taking her expression at face value, King Leopold disengages her hands just so he can move forward and cup her cheek with long fingers. Regina shudders at the contact, moving her eyes down and to the side in a way that she hopes comes off as shy and guarded, rather than disgusted.

King Leopold smiles, the extension of his lips making his face look utterly dumb. Regina wonders whether this man was ever handsome at all, or if he’s withered with age, and pointedly avoids thinking about his graying temples or the visible wrinkles on the skin of his neck.

“We are going to be so happy, my queen,” he says, and Regina has to dig her thumb sharply in the palm of her hand to stop herself from crying.

 

* * *

 

There is a little over a month left before Regina is to marry the king, and after her rude awakening during their short encounter as a family, she realizes that she has been completely buried by her own preoccupations, and that she has been letting the universe take a new form around her without any true concern for what her future is truly going to look like. She’s been devoured by her anguish and her futile escape attempts, and now she finds herself floundering for answers. She’s wildly expressed her desire of freedom to both her parents, but in her lack of results, perhaps it’s about time that she begins to prepare herself for what it’s to come.

For weeks now she’s been convinced that she was handling herself decently, even while plagued by nightmares and while taking little to no care of herself, but the truth is that she’s been a complete mess of emotions. She makes up her mind to change her demeanor, to try and find balance within her new surroundings, try and figure out what she’s to become if she’s to survive this. It’s almost funny how survival had been easier before, when she’d had mother’s hand to guide her. Despite her harshness, mother had always made her expectations very clear, and Regina had learnt to navigate her world to the point of knowing how and when to sidestep the rules. Everything now is a completely different game, and Regina needs to gather her wits about her and find her own ways under the renewed fundamentals around her.

She buries Daniel’s memory deep within her, pushes it to a hidden corner of her heart where she can preserve it, where no one can get to it. That bit of her will never stop hurting, will always make her chest pound rancorously, but for now, it can take a backseat while she figures herself out. She promises to herself that there will come a time to bring her pain back to the surface, and to make the responsible people answer for it.

“I’m so sorry, Daniel,” she whispers into the shadows of the night, trapped in unfamiliar bedchambers and holding onto the ring he’d given to her with a wide smile stretched across his lips. It feels like the goodbye she never got to utter, and for now, it will have to be enough to help her bear her hardships.

New resolutions in mind, she begins taking better care of herself by eating properly again, even when her stomach complains in her efforts. She’s been so careless about her habits that she’s almost forgotten what a good meal tastes like, though, and she feels as if she can’t enjoy food anymore. She has half a mind to go down to the kitchens and ask the cooks for something more flavorful, perhaps for some of those long forgotten dishes from father’s home, but then it seems foolish to ask for something foreign when her table is filled daily by more food that she can bear to look upon.

Sleep eludes her, though, her mind still plagued by shapeless nightmares that wake her up in the middle of the night and make her afraid of closing her eyes. Still, she does, closes them tightly and counts out loud, trying to free her head from unwanted thoughts, hoping to crash into sleep if only out of weariness.

Despite the apparent desperation that follows her around, she discovers that her new station does grant her a bit of freedom, so long as she plays her cards right. Mother has an iron fist around her, as she’s always had, and Regina can tell that the servants of the palace are already aware of her quick temper and her cold, sharp tongue, which has made them not only wary of her, but also of Regina. Mother can’t exert her control over the princess, though, and Regina realizes that as long as she requests Snow’s company, she can get away with just about anything. And it’s so very easy, with how much the child seems to adore her.

A few days after requesting her gift to the king, she finds Snow in her chambers and convinces her to go back to horse riding, promising that she will be with her every step of the way. Snow fawns at the idea, and so she allows Regina the freedom of riding every day atop _Rocinante_ , of feeling, if only for just short moments of mindlessness, that things may just be right after all. They also take long walks together around the palace gardens, where Snow is more than happy to provide most of the conversation while Regina merely hums her agreement appropriately.

Despite the respite that Snow’s presence can be, it’s also a source of madness for Regina. She feels unhinged around the child, at times almost giddy while going through random bouts of unrestrained and bitter anger. Snow is charming but inconsiderate, so very easily assuming that everyone around her aims to please her that the idea that someone may just not be there for her sole enjoyment seems foreign to her little self. She makes demands at will, not just from maids but from the continuous stream of guests that inhabit the palace at all times, and now more than ever from Regina. Snow had claimed to want a mother, but it’s so very clear to Regina that all she wants is a glorified babysitter that Regina has a harder time everyday plastering a smile on her face for her.

 _All you had to do was keep your mouth shut, you little brat,_ Regina thinks, _but now I see I asked the impossible of a capricious child used to devotion._

Regina wavers in her feelings, though, unable to hate the girl when it’s her presence that rescues her from mother’s smothering attention, and when she’s the only person in the palace who deems Regina important enough to talk to her. She hasn’t seen the king at all since the last time, and while part of her is glad that she doesn’t have to face him, the rest of her trembles with frustration. The man is going to wed and bed her, and he clearly has no interest in speaking to her at all. She’d thought that perhaps, she may yet come to care for the man, given time, but she’s sure now that he will never be anything to her other than a jailor.

Regardless of Regina’s ostensible rebellion, mother looks oddly pleased with her. Regina figures that the simple yet effective manipulation Regina is engaging in with Snow satisfies mother’s desires, even if said manipulation serves the purpose of escaping her grasp. Unintentionally, Regina finds pride in her mother’s approval, and it is only at night, when she’s alone and crying, that she realizes that she’s becoming everything mother ever wanted her to be.

         

* * *

 

A fortnight before the wedding, the apple tree arrives at the palace, as Snow quite happily proclaims by rampaging her way into Regina’s bedchambers and jumping on the bed that a groggy Regina is still occupying. The girl has no respect for anything, not sleep and certainly not privacy, but Regina has a hard time not admiring her enthusiasm; she wants to giggle, even, the way she never did when she was Snow’s age herself.

The arrival becomes quite the occurrence in the palace, and by the time Regina reaches the gardens with Snow in tow, it’s already being planted in a previously chosen spot, and the place has been filled by curious onlookers, both nobles and not. Regina must admit that it’s quite the spectacle, with the tree being so old and big, and being maneuvered by ropes, pulleys and what seems like dozens of palace guards and an overly stressed Royal Gardener. When the whole ordeal is over, a path is opened for Regina to stand before the tree, and she looks up at it with amazement in her gaze. She holds her hands before her, and notices the signs of tears ready to fall. It’s foolish, honestly, to feel this much over a tree, but this piece from home and from her past suddenly has her feeling more grounded than she has in the last few months, as if they’re both rooted together to the soil beneath her feet.

Regina smiles, and her smile in honest and unconscious. Unaware of the whisperings going on around her, she looks about herself, realizing that she’s blindly searching for her father among the crowd. When her gaze finds his, he walks her way in tiny steps and quickly holds onto the hand that she offers him with both of his, cradling it as if something precious, and letting a soft thumb caress the skin of her knuckles. Shamelessly, she leans forward and presses a swift kiss to father’s cheek.

Unconsciously, not giving a second thought to her surroundings, Regina proclaims an overly emotional, “ _Es como un pedacito de casa, papi.” **(1)**_

Father’s surprised chuckle is the most wonderful sound Regina has heard in ages, and it makes her feel surprisingly, outstandingly _happy._ It lasts but a second, enough for her to realize that mother’s gaze is nothing but extreme disapproval, and that her body is taut in that way that makes her look as if her skin isn’t enough to contain her fury. The familiar feeling of mother’s magic tingles at the back of Regina’s mouth, somehow tasting like blood. Regina stares at her, scared by what she might do, but then mother knows better than to reveal herself as the powerful witch she is in front of what must be the whole court by now. It doesn’t make Regina feel any better, though, knowing that she’s done something to grant that kind of reaction.

It feels to Regina as if the standstill lasts for far too long, her heart beating erratically inside her chest even while her hand still rests between father’s. The silence, only broken by murmurs from the crowd, is stale and awkward, the atmosphere around them feeling suddenly full of danger. Regina wonders what she’s done wrong this time, and why nothing is ever good enough for mother.

It’s Snow’s voice what cuts the lull in the air, asking, “Does that mean you like it, Regina?”

Regina looks at her questioningly, and when Snow tilts her head to the side in a sign of childish confusion, Regina recognizes her misstep immediately; she’s just spoken in father’s native language in front of the whole court, exposing herself as something foreign, something different, something not to be understood, perhaps even something ungrateful. She realizes that everyone around her is probably expecting nothing but elegant gratefulness towards the king and his daughter, and that what Regina’s done is find her father and make sure her words aren’t understood, alienating herself from the crowd in her mindless bliss.

“I–” she stops, mouth hanging slightly open and hopelessly trying to gather herself. She straightens up in a way that’s second nature by now, and gazing away from mother’s acrimony, she looks for Snow’s eyes. Her feelings for the girl may very well be filled with contradiction, but Regina is fairly confident that she may just be her only ally inside this strange palace and unfamiliar new life.

Schooling her features into a small and polite smile that she’s close to perfecting, Regina lets go of father’s hands and turns her back to the apple tree so she can focus her whole attention on the princess before her. She reaches forward and allows her fingers to cradle Snow’s cheek softly before settling carefully under her chin, a gesture that makes the girl smile in a way that Regina’s never seen before, something small but genuine, devoid of her usual exuberance but somehow more fragile than Regina had expected.

“Of course I like it, dear,” Regina says, loud and clear so that everyone can hear, but keeping her eyes and body turned only towards Snow.

Snow reacts immediately, grabbing Regina’s free hand and guiding her until they’re both standing right under the tree, where it smells earthy, of apples and grass. “Oh, isn’t it wonderful?” Snow wonders, her tone and posture effortlessly royal, as if Snow naturally understands when to be a boisterous child and when to behave like a little lady.

“Yes, yes it is.”

Following her statement, Regina looks up and around her, trying her best at looking young and foolish, perhaps even a little bit in love once her eyes find the king, standing not too far away from them both and right next to mother. Regina laughs, false delight easily fabricated as she lets her steps take her to her future husband, as she presses nervous, trembling hands into his, daring herself to believe her own act enough so that everyone around her thinks her a nonsensical little girl rather than an ungrateful and gratuitous buffoon of a child.

“Thank you so very much, Your Majesty,” she intones, lowering her voice and her chin, looking up at him with nearly pleading eyes. She tries to say something more, but words choke on her throat and she hopes that the man before her is simple enough to think her overwhelmed by emotion.

Whatever she’s done, it seems to do the trick, prompting an absurdly unattractive smile to grace the king’s features, which somehow manages to ease the air and placate everyone around them, including mother. She’s looking at Regina with that hard won pride that she had strived for so very much while growing up, and she hates that this little stunt has so easily granted it to her. She knows mother is aware of her putting on a show, and just the thought makes her feel slightly sick.

Time, which had felt as if it had stopped after Regina’s natural outburst of emotion towards father, starts to move then, with the people from the court surrounding them coming closer to the tree or starting to leave the place, commenting their opinions freely and loudly. Regina breathes out harshly, making sure her smile stays plastered on her face for as long as the king and mother are watching her, and she hates herself for the position she’s managed to put herself in. She notices, sharp shards of anger crawling up her chest and all the way up to her throat, that her back is to father, and that she doesn’t even dare look up at the ripe, red apples of the tree.

Regina had felt elation for one short moment, but now that is the farthest emotion taking root in her heart, and she only gets angrier and angrier at being constantly uncertain of her own feelings. She’s been trying to play a game to please everyone but herself, and she knows that all she’s managed to do is betray her own hopes and dreams, betray her own heritage in exchange of a vacant smile that she can’t bring herself to care about. Father is behind her, she can’t look up at her tree, Daniel is dead and gone, and Regina is a lost little girl that doesn’t truly know if surviving this is worth it.

 

* * *

 

Later that evening, Regina gets her monthly bleeding, and she can’t help but scowl at the irony of it all. Blood between her legs days before she’s to marry a man she can never see herself loving, right after she’s betrayed everything she is by falling face first into mother’s game. At least, the timing of Regina’s body upsets mother, who’d wanted to make a last minute check of the wedding dress and can’t very well do it now.

“Not when you’re so disgustingly bloated, my dear,” she tells Regina, scolding her as if she’s purposefully lacking the power to control her own cycle.

Following mother’s usual orders, Regina hides herself in her bedchambers, even managing to ignore Snow’s frequent visits under the guise that she’s just not feeling quite well. She fancies that Snow would probably get her way and meander into her room anyway if only the wedding wasn’t so close – she’d heard a pair of giggly maids talking about how _the little queen must be jittery about the wedding night,_ and Regina had snapped at them for their indiscretion, managing to make her first true interaction with the servants at the palace something entirely too disagreeable for all parties involved.

Regina tries to enjoy her solitude, but despite what she may have said to the maids, she _is_ jittery about the wedding night. Not for the usual reasons, but because Regina’s known intimate physical love from a boy that made her heart beat wildly, and she dreads the idea of supporting the king’s naked weight above her, of being touched by his dry hands and most of all, of being expected to do it more than once and whenever it pleases the king. Perhaps his acclaimed kindness is the truth of his heart and he won’t touch her when she doesn’t want to be touched, but Regina has little hope for a man who would actively choose to take a girl young enough to be his daughter as his second wife, while ostensibly proving that he doesn’t have any actual interest in talking to her, or listening to her desires over her mother’s.

On her second night alone, though, there’s a creaking door and a rustling of fabrics that’s soon followed by father’s small figure making its way into the room. He’s carrying a big tray between shaky arms, and Regina nearly jumps from the bed in her haste to help him. Father actually giggles as they just manage to bring the tray down to the floor, choosing immediately after to pull some pillows down with them and rest there in some sort of makeshift picnic. Once they’re settled, father removes the entirely too ornamental silver plate cover and Regina’s senses get assaulted by the rich scent of heavily spiced food. Her stomach grumbles noisily, and Regina presses both her hands to it over her night robe, palms spread wide. It’s almost as if she has forgotten what craving food feels like, and the watering of her dry mouth is surprising.

Father smiles in the darkness of the room, busying himself with lighting up a candle even as he explains that he’s managed to befriend one of the kitchen maids, and that he has actually convinced her into having the cook prepare some special meals.

“Oh, daddy, only you would,” Regina mutters quietly, unrestrained fondness creeping up her tired limbs.

Regina has wondered about father's whereabouts during their time in the palace, since she hasn’t seen much of him at all. She’d hoped mother hadn’t been the one to take him away from her, while at the same time suspecting completely different reasons for her father’s disappearance, taking into consideration the guilt he couldn’t even begin to hide whenever he looked at Regina ever since holding her screaming body back home. Regina’s not surprised, though, that father has managed to ignore nobles and court life while conquering the service with his inherent charm.

Not saying anything, Regina reaches forward and dives her hand into the plate, ignoring cutlery in favor of dirtying up her fingers with untamed energy, the unexpected growl of her stomach satisfying her starved senses. She finds thick slices of meat, rice, potatoes and rich-smelling gravy, the texture of everything together against the skin of her fingers unlike anything she’s ever felt before, gummy and viscous and nearly disgusting. She still brings a mouthful up to her parted lips, careless enough to drop sauce into her nightgown, and can’t help but whimper softly when the heated dish touches her tongue, a splash of flavor reminding her that there was a time not long ago when food was synonym with satisfaction. She eats ravenously, licking excess gravy from her fingers and digging in fast and reckless, utter abandon in her gestures until she realizes that she’s back where she began, indulging mindlessly to quiet the tears that she can’t stop from falling down her cheeks.

“ _Oh, cielo…”_

But that’s all father says, clearly lost for words, and all Regina finds in herself to reply with is, “I’m sorry, daddy, I’m so sorry.” She repeats the words over and over, her tone growing quieter and her tears thicker as she covers her mouth with the back of her dirty hand.

She doesn’t know what she’s apologizing for, or even to whom. It might be for the sickening display in front of the court, for the manipulative game she’s playing with Snow which she doesn’t fully understand herself, for the choices that are being forced upon her, for Daniel, always for Daniel, gone and buried away in Regina’s red nightmares.

Father holds her, shushes her anguish away while whispering nonsense against her ear. But he doesn’t rescue her, not from mother, or her magic, or this life Regina hasn’t asked for and has no use for. It follows, then, that Regina is alone, and maybe it’s time for her to save herself, and quit waiting for a knight in shining armor that will never come.

* * *

 

Regina tries to run away one more time, a last ditch attempt to get as far away from the palace as possible. She goes to the stables in the middle of the night, saddling _Rocinante_ with quick, practiced ease, keeping her mind on her escape and refusing to look around herself and get emotional. These are not the stables back home, after all, and Daniel isn’t going to appear from around the corner somewhere, cheeky smile and a mock bow to offer her, so Regina needs to disambiguate herself of the notion and focus. It occurs to her, once she’s atop _Rocinante_ and riding away, that she has no plans beyond running fast and very far away, perhaps as far as a different kingdom so King Leopold’s hand can’t reach her. She knows it’s damn foolish to just ride away and hope, but she figures she’ll come up with a plan once she’s away from mother’s clutches, if such a thing is possible. Maybe daddy’s family will take her in, or maybe she’ll just have to learn how to do something useful and earn herself a living.

Later, when the sun’s already out and she’s made it as far as the edge of the forest and mother has caught up to her, Regina’s glad that she didn’t let herself make too many plans. She doesn’t fight it, knowing by now her efforts to be futile, but she does realize that mother uses her spells with a softer hand, perhaps afraid to bruise her badly when she needs to be perfect for her wedding night; mother wouldn’t want the king to see the shape of curled branches etched on Regina’s purpled skin.

Regina speaks of freedom and mother replies with talks of power. Sometimes, when mother speaks with her mouth set into a thin line and her eyes fixed obstinately on Regina’s, it’s almost as if she’s branding her words on Regina’s skin, making them crawl under and around her body, burning them with hot coals into her heart. _Love is weakness, and power is freedom._ Regina doesn’t want to believe her, but when she’s being dragged back into the palace unwillingly, eyes dry because she doesn’t have any tears left in her, it’s hard not to take mother’s truths at face value.

Taking a page from mother’s book, then, Regina makes father tell her of mother’s past, of her dark ways and her fiddling with magic, and later that night, she finds herself stealing a book and summoning a demon from her mother’s past, the name Rumpelstiltskin crossing Regina’s lips for the first time.

* * *

 

The wedding comes sooner than Regina expected, rattling her to the core. There’s still a slimy kind of haze around the whole ordeal, as if she can’t quite believe that this is her life, and it shakes her, because she’s never thought herself as one for denial. Everything is wrong, though, the fact that she’s getting married to some old king and that she’s expected to smile while she does it, because she’s been granted a great honor and no one will ever understand that this is not the life she pictured for herself.

She stands before a full length mirror as she waits to be called for her grand entrance, trying to find herself in her reflection. She presses her hands to the tight waist of her wedding dress, examining her body in a way that she hasn’t in some time, scrutinizing the shape of her torso clad in the hard fabric of the gown, trying to breathe deeply even when the whalebones of the corset are digging uncomfortably into the skin of her stomach. She thinks she looks beautiful, grown up and fully formed, the shape of her dark eyes and lips pleasantly alluring and her neck long and elegant even if weighted under the heaviness of an entirely too thick necklace. For the first time ever, she hates that she finds herself attractive, and wishes that she could be twelve again, wondering if anyone would ever see her and think of beauty.

“Oh, Regina, you truly look beautiful.”

Regina shifts uncomfortably, looking at Snow now standing by the open door to her bedchambers. She’s at her most regal in a light pink dress with the puffiest sleeves Regina’s ever seen and flowers carefully woven into her long hair. Regina can’t even mumble a thank you, but as if sensing her nervousness, Snow reaches out, expecting Regina to take her hand and be led away. It’s fitting, she supposes, that Snow should be the one to guide her to the ceremony, her small hand having led every event in her life since she appeared in it. Regina wants to shake her, grab her tiny arms and shake her until she realizes the position she’s put her in, until she’s scared and dizzy and feeling a fraction of Regina’s misery. Instead, Regina schools her features and takes the tiny hand.

Father is the one to give her away, and Regina is thankful that she can hold his arm and steady herself with something as she walks to meet her groom. The ceremony is short and meaningless, and when King Leopold leans down to kiss her, Regina turns her face imperceptibly to the side so his lips land at the corner of hers. The court cheers around them, and Regina wants to turn towards all of the unfamiliar faces around them and yell at them, for surely there’s nothing here to cheer about.

The ball reminds Regina slightly of her birthday parties, and so she falls easily into the routines that mother instilled in her, refusing food with a dismissive gesture that’s second nature to her. She’s eaten nothing but a dry loaf of bread today, and she hopes that the cold sweat gathering on her forehead isn’t noticeable, and that it isn’t frizzing up her hair. Regardless of whether she looks pleasing enough or not, King Leopold smiles brightly at her when they open the dance. Regina should answer in kind, but she married him with sadness etched into her eyes and she can’t bring herself to turn the corners of her lips up, consciously afraid that all she will manage will be a sour sort of grimace.

It doesn’t take too long to understand that no one is paying her much attention, the irony not escaping her, and mother’s voice filling her senses, the words _I’m afraid they don’t love you_ pounding the sides of her head. She has half a mind to eat something, just to ease the haziness of her head, but she finds that she prefers to be as detached as possible from this, and so she just fetches a cupful of wine and gulps it down as fast as she can without dropping the liquid. She hasn’t drunk much before, mother only allowing the odd cup during birthday feasts, and her fast drinking has her swaying on the spot.

“Daddy,” she says, looking back behind her where she knows father has been standing all night, watching her with worried eyes, blending with the walls and the curtains as if he’s no one of importance, rather than the father of the bride. Then again, when she’s being paid no attention whatsoever, she has no hope that father will be of any consequence in the court.

“Yes, _cielo?_ ”

“I’m stepping outside for a bit,” she says, and before father can answer, she makes a hasty retreat, angling her steps towards the balcony that she knows the big banners with King Leopold’s coat of arms are hiding.

Her steps are slow and she feels heavy, as if her dress is trying to drag her down. It’s certainly a bit of a monstrosity, the skirts wide around her hips and the train entirely too long, making it uncomfortably difficult to maneuver. The bulky necklace and earrings she’s wearing wear her down as well, and the thick tiara tying her hair together on the top of her head has had her wanting to tear it out for hours now. As she finally steps outside and takes a deep breath of the cool night air, she thinks of her dreams of light dresses and open fields, and tries to stop thinking of the sparkly and luxurious jewels that she’s been gifted with as if they were the heftiest of shackles.

Once outside, Regina paces. She holds onto the skirts of the dress, making no small effort to pull them up enough so walking is easier, and hears her own steps with satisfaction as they pound on the floor, taking her from one end of the balcony to the other and back again. Unconsciously, her free hand reaches up to her neck, squeezing the skin there and threatening to break the clasp of her necklace.

“So exquisite, my dear,” mother had said when she’d first seen it, and Regina had pressed her thumb into her palm so hard that it’d bruised, just so she could stop herself from voicing how she would never have chosen to wear something like it.

It takes her a long while to stop her frantic pacing, but when she finally does, she finds herself clutching at the railings with a tight grip, gloved hands feeling the cold of the metal seep into them. It grounds her somewhat, even when her breathing is coming short and her throat feels stiff and strained, as if she’s making an effort not to cry.

“Well, dearie, you sure make for a tragic bride.”

Regina whips around in a too fast-paced motion when Rumpelstiltskin’s voice reaches her, and she finds the little imp leaning close to her, smile almost predatory and entirely too amused for her liking. Regina huffs, turns away from him so she doesn’t have to look at his scaly skin, his ugly teeth or his strange hair, so she can run away from his knowing gaze. He makes her shiver involuntarily, so she presses her hands to her forearms, closing in on herself. He giggles, a laugh that might sound ridiculous to unpracticed ears but that sounds cruel to Regina, who knows better than to underestimate a threat.

She has very consciously been avoiding the thought of mother and the mirror that she pushed her into, of the power that had cursed through her veins like molten lava when she’d broken her spell and counteracted it with one of her own. For days, Regina had wondered about small signs from her past, mutely speaking to her about a potential she hadn’t known was hers. She had remembered a broken glass when she was six and afraid of the dark, water dropped from a vase that had disappeared mysteriously before mother could find out when she was twelve, a painting dropping of its own accord to the floor when a guest at the house had made an impertinent comment about the disgracefulness of a woman riding horses like a man at age fifteen, bottles breaking around her when trapped in the cellar after an evening spent in Daniel’s arms.

Lost in her thoughts, Regina jumps when Rumpelstiltskin’s hands come to rest on her naked shoulders, one of his long nails touching the skin of her neck, piercing and uncomfortable. She bites her lip, scolds herself for showing fear in front of this creature, who so very clearly thrives in his own alarm inducing power. Regina knows better than to show apprehension, though, knows that if she intends him to be her master in magic she needs to find a more equal ground, needs to make him understand that she won’t be a simple puppet to him. He clearly wants something from her, Regina’s not stupid enough to think otherwise, and so that gives her some leverage.

Squaring her shoulders and throwing a disdainful look to one of his hands on her skin, she rolls them back purposefully and shrugs him away. She takes a couple of steps forward and turns to face him, hands firmly clasped on the heavy fabric of her skirt. “What do you want?” she questions imperiously, trying to instill authority in her tone. “No one can see you here.”

Rumpelstiltskin smiles, his grin toothy and impudent as he bows before her with mock reverence. “A present for the new queen, of course.” With a flourish, he produces a small object that he dangles before Regina. It’s round and cheap looking, netting binding it together and colorful feathers hanging from it.

“What is it?”

“A dream catcher, dearie; it’s said to ward off nightmares.”

Regina huffs, crosses her arms over her chest and smirks softly when Rumpelstiltskin simply stays in the same position, one purple clad leg thrust forward as he bows, and his arm outstretched.

“I don’t want it,” she states.

Rumpelstiltskin’s eyes become hooded, and as he straightens up, Regina clutches back at her forearms, warding herself from any possible anger she may have caused. The dream catcher disappears with a second surge of magic, and Regina sticks her tongue to the roof of her mouth, as if trying to chase a vanishing aftertaste. Mother’s magic had been like bitter metal at the back of her throat, but Rumpelstiltskin’s is sickly sweet, like the kind of syrup Regina had loved as a child but that would give way to stomach ache after just a spoonful. Rumpelstiltskin’s looking at her appraisingly, so she lifts her chin up and stares back; he knows himself menacing, but Regina has an entire lifetime of surviving mother’s scrutiny, and she realizes that she will never know more fear than the simple threat of mother finding her doing something untoward.

After a too long beat of time, Rumpelstiltskin gives a small jump backwards and with his always moving hands points at her and asks, “Why not?” He sounds offended, and Regina has a feeling that he doesn’t offer gifts on many occasions.

Tilting her head to the side, doing her own bit of examination with eyes at half mast, she tells him, “I don’t trust you.”

He giggles almost immediately, the sound piercing and uncomfortable but one that Regina knows she will have to get used to. “Oh, dearie, I’m going to enjoy _you_ ,” he says, grin spreading wide on his features and making him seem uglier than ever. “Now, enjoy your night; I’m sure the king will.”

Regina balks at the words thrown at her, but before she can reply, Rumpelstiltskin has thrown a dismissive _see you soon, dearie_ into the air and has disappeared, the shadow of his laughter lingering around her. Regina is left with her mouth parted and her eyes wide, the sudden reminder of who she’s just become sitting ill in her stomach. She harrumphs, feeling young and trapped among circumstances and forces that she can’t understand, and finds herself fleetingly missing mother’s harsh but guiding hand. She stares at her own, wonders if Rumpelstiltskin’s right in thinking that she can become more powerful, that she can somehow have the kind of skill that will allow her to take revenge on those who have wronged her. She also wonders if it’s too late to run away now. Shaking her head, she does her best at removing her doubts from her mind. Mother’s gone now and all she has to rely on is her own strength.

Fixing herself tall and proud yet again, she turns so she can look back at the abandoned ballroom, and catches brief glimpses of colorful gowns, the sound of music and soft laughter reaching her ears. Indeed, she hasn’t been missed, not at her own wedding, not by her future family. She scowls as she starts walking, thinking that she will show everyone around her exactly who she is, and just what she’s made of, and walks back into the ballroom with a stance full of determination, just like a queen.

 

* * *

 

As impossible as it seems, time moves on, and the palace around her settles into an easily predictable routine. The place is big and busy, overwhelming for Regina, who had spent so many years in a state that almost never held any guests, where the palace holds a permanent set of court members that barely dwindles in number. People come and go, often staying for periods no longer than a fortnight, and so Regina finds herself wandering through hallways and gardens clogged by the presence of people that she doesn’t know and who don’t seem to have any particular interest in knowing her.

 _What a sad little queen,_ she hears a proud countess whisper to her ever present companion one day, and she scowls and bows to end her somehow, some undetermined time in the future. It hurts to be whispered about but not sought out, but she starts to understand her situation the more words she spies, the quiet murmur of how sad but exotically beautiful she is reaching her ears on a quiet afternoon.

“She’s beautiful, though,” a man Regina hasn’t seen before says to his wife.

She scrunches her nose, dismissive. “Yes, she does have that type of exotic beauty, doesn’t she?”

Regina is reminded of stepping into old Master Clive’s little cottage and feeling inadequate, of being made aware of her true status in life simply by how rich her clothes had seemed to her in that moment. Just like then, she realizes that her status here is deemed as lowly and inappropriate, that she’s nothing but the daughter of the sixth son of a king from a foreign land and that mother’s origins are nothing if not questionable. She’s a sad, little exotic queen, a poor excuse of a substitute for King Leopold’s first wife.

Knowing where she stands helps her, though, allows her to grasp the reins of her life and make what she wants of the court around her. She starts listening more closely, realizes that people talk around her without paying her much mind, and soon begins to file away the facts of a court that’s corrupt and full of secrets. She learns of secret affairs and ploys, of old grudges and broken alliances, of unplanned attacks and states running out of money. It’s strangely exhilarant, and Regina finds that learning, which as a child had seemed like such a waste of time, is now something to look forward to. She pours herself into books, then, befriending the palace librarian if only by curtseying to him every day when she steps into the place, and realizes that mother’s insistence in her lessons has proven useful, and that she understands geography, history and politics in ways that she knows would surprise everyone around her.

Taking a page from most books about life in court, she starts inviting the most influential members of the different kingdoms to her chambers for tea and pastries, allowing herself to be paraded as some sort of new toy and listening intently to what they have to say. She remains mostly quiet in these meetings, playing coy and young, making sure that it’s her guests who fill the silence. She despises them all, and soon starts listening to the tales about her change from the epithet _sad_ to the much more satisfying _proud._

It’s a burden but one that she’s willing to endure, particularly when King Leopold doesn’t seem too keen on engaging her in any kind of conversation. They never eat together, both Snow and the King often taking their suppers with noblemen while Regina takes her own by herself in her chambers, and that strikes her as severely odd, her mother’s words about the privilege of sharing a table with one’s family so very close to her heart. Eating these days is a hardship for her, and she believes that she would be able to control her worst instincts if she were forced into eating with others. As it is, Regina finds herself with no appetite on regular occasion, but prone to random bouts of shoveling food into her mouth until she makes herself sick. Mother would balk at such disgrace, but what Regina bemoans is how little she enjoys food anymore one way or the other, missing the days in which the rich smell of her favorite foods could get her to smile.

More than anything, though, it's Snow and the king that prove to be her toughest jailors. King Leopold, the bumbling fool, has proven to be predictable at least, which Regina is thankful for, if only because she can prepare herself correctly for the two nights a week he visits her bedchambers whenever he’s not travelling to another land or neighboring kingdom. Part of Regina wants to demand to be taken on such trips as the rightful queen, but the idea of putting up with the man’s advances more than necessary stops her short from such a request.

On that first night, right after the wedding, she’d been undressed by her ever-changing lady’s maids and dressed on a flimsy white nightdress, her hair left loose and combed until all tangles were gone. Regina remembers her brown nipples being clearly visible through the thin fabric, the curly dark hair at the apex of her thighs almost obscene, and she remembers how the king had barely laid eyes upon her, nor her body or her nervous hands that couldn’t stop from shaking.

“I do not wish to lay with you,” she’d said, bravado from two cups of wine and a confrontation with Rumpelstiltskin making her state her wishes in the rare hope that it may change the night’s events.

Leopold hadn’t cared for her wishes, and whatever sliver of sympathy she may have held for the man had vanished right there and then. She hadn’t fought him physically, though, knowing the act to be foolish and wanting the night to be over as soon as possible. That particular wish had been granted, for Leopold had merely laid upon her, raising her shift over her hips, and had laid claim to her with no delicacy, his face turned away from hers and his eyes closed tight, as if he couldn’t bare the sight of her under him. He’d felt heavy above her, his body big and unpleasant, the skin of his face clammy with sweat, and his breath had smelled of the sweet rum that had flowed freely at the wedding ball. She’d been dry between her legs, unpleasantly so, but had been thankful for the pain of his intrusion if only because it had grounded her into physical repulsion, and had served the purpose of verifying a virtue that she’d lost long ago. She hadn’t cried, but once he’d finished, a quiet groan and a shaky smile being all the signs of his completion, he’d gotten up and had walked away from her and she’d curled in on herself, pain of all kinds more unbearable than she’d thought possible. He’d tried to kiss her forehead as he said his goodnights, but she’d recoiled from the touch, and had only started breathing regularly when he’d thankfully left her room to sleep in his own chambers.

After the fact, Regina had gathered her strength and had asked for a bath, which had been granted between grumbles and protests of _capricious little girl_. Whoever was in charge of her whenever the king visited knew better by now, as Regina asked for the same every single time, taking pleasure in cleansing her body from the smell of rum and of his body, trying to will the pain away in the soft caress of warm water.

Now, every night the king visits her, she repeats her request. _I do not wish to lay with you,_ she whispers, voice soft but pronunciation clear, delighted for a second when her words make the king flinch. She thrives in provoking him, watching his magnanimous and kind persona fade before her, staring at him with hard, judgmental eyes. If he wants her, he will bear this; Regina will make this as unpleasant for them both as possible.

She does wonder at his actions though, questions why it is that he can’t at least _try._ Regina may have not been ready to love him, or even to be fond of him, but she’s young and her body responsive, and if only he would ever try touching her, kissing her, pleasing her, there may be some comfort derived from this unnatural marriage. He doesn’t wish for her body or her mind, though, and so she’s stumped as to his desire to marry again. Perhaps he hopes for another child, or maybe he’d just wanted a mother for Snow; she seems like a fool’s choice for both purposes, both too young and too harsh for this weak old king that still holds a candle for his deceased queen. Regina despises everything about him.

“I didn’t realize you would be this difficult, my queen,” he tells her one night.

She’s sitting on the bed, shift and robe covering her body after he’s used it while he busies himself finding his discarded shoes. Now more than ever Regina finds him old and disgusting, and wants to berate him for everything that he is, but most particularly for the smell of rum that always permeates these encounters, as if he can’t stand being in her presence without drinking.

“And when did His Majesty judge my character so wisely? Was it when my mother accepted your proposal in my name, or perhaps in the whole half hour we spent together before standing together at the altar?”

He winces at the cruelty in her tone, his hand fisting by his side as if he wishes to use it on her. Regina sometimes longs for him to do it, thinks that she would respect him more if he were capable of hating her properly and completely, if he had the guts to damage that which irritates him so. She thinks it may just be what she needs too, pain and soreness to settle her angry heart.

On a different evening, he holds her forearms and shakes her. It’s not terribly hard, but Regina’s naked and cold, and she’s finding herself skinnier by the day, so he looks tall and imposing as he does so, fully clothed and so impossibly aged that it disgusts Regina. She’d thrown a tantrum that day when the king had sent the Royal Doctor to her, demanding a monthly routinely examination of her health and spouting something about preparing her for the physical endurance of childbirth. She’d refused the humiliating process, claiming that she would call her own doctor when she deemed it necessary.

“You will do as you’re told, child,” the king intones, his voice at his most no-nonsense, the way she’s heard it when he reprimands one of his servants.

“Have it your way, Your Majesty,” she answers back, her tone biting and rough, her eyes steady and unforgiving when they bore into his. “You shall uphold your end of this bargain, though. If you are to expect a child from me and bed me like a woman, you will never again refer to me as _child._ ”

The thought of a child unsettles her to the point of disrupting her sleep, and even makes her meals sit distastefully in her stomach whenever the idea assaults her. It’s a very clear possibility, and Regina wonders if she could somehow love a child that she would share with this man, or even if she would be allowed to raise a kid as she wished to, or if the infant would become family to Snow and the king and be estranged from its mother. She rejects all reflections when they become intolerable, though, and begins relishing the days of the month that see her cramped and bleeding.

Regina doesn’t think the king even _wants_ a child, particularly not from her. It seems what’s expected, but he hardly seems interested in extending the perfect little family he has with his daughter. Snow, whom he adores and who adores him in return, seems to be everything he needs, and the only person truly worth of his attention, and whose requests are answered in a positive manner. Regina knows that if she wants something from the king, she needs to go through the girl, and she hates the dynamic and the family that she’s been forced into that it’s everything but.

In name and paper, she’s a queen, a surrogate mother and a wife; in reality, she lords over nothing but empty rooms and hallways, and she feels like an enhanced babysitter and a well paid whore. Deep down, in her heart, she knows herself to be a hurt, angry little girl who’s lost her lover and her mother, and who is slowly losing control of herself.

 

* * *

 

Regina turns nineteen, and if not for father’s congratulations and gift, the date would have gone unnoticed. She forgets herself, time seeming to stand still at the palace by virtue of its ever-changing nature. The constant flow of different faces, and the fact that her lady’s maids change at least once a fortnight make for a confusing recounting of time, and so Regina receives father’s present with genuine surprise. It’s a silver brush, simple but shiny, her name engraved at the handle with small letters that Regina traces almost reverently as she smiles wistfully. It just says _Regina,_ no titles before her name, and she wonders if that’s truly who she is these days.

“Thank you, daddy,” she whispers, tears in her eyes as she hugs him tight and strong against her, his frame feeling entirely too small in her arms.

Father continues to get smaller as time goes by, easily fading into the background until he’s made a sort of valet of himself. Not for the first time, Regina talks to him about the possibility of going back to the state to live his years peacefully now that mother’s gone – a fact that he’s never asked about. He refuses the offer, though, just like every time, claiming that he likes life at the palace, and that he wishes to remain close to her. His words never fail to warm Regina’s slowly icing heart, but she worries about how easily he makes himself scarce, as if he doesn’t feel like enough for the people in the palace. He roams the hallways quietly and slowly, and Regina knows he won’t talk to the nobles but that he’s struck a sort of friendship with Fritz, the fussy Royal Gardener that’s been teaching Regina how to care for the apple tree. He’s from some far away foreign land, and for all of his apparent nerves, he has a calming voice, deep, strong and unwavering, and she knows he enjoys talking to her father.

Regina does wish father would speak to more people, knows that he would make easy friends with his quiet demeanor and his undemanding character, but perhaps mother managed to destroy his spirit completely after all. He doesn’t seem interested in being more than he is, though, and Regina doesn’t know how to be proud enough for both of them.

No one at the palace offers birthday wishes or gifts, and Regina unwittingly longs for mother’s over elaborated balls. There are no balls to be had in her honor, though, and she guesses it would be too much to ask of her family to remember a date such as this. Things don’t have birthdays after all, and she can hardly see herself as a person before their eyes anymore.

Surprisingly enough, Rumpelstiltskin remembers. His wishes come in the form of a sharp, amused barb at her ego which he accompanies with one of his shiver inducing giggles, and of course there are no presents to be had. Regina thanks him with something akin to contempt, but can’t help but feel something indescribable when it’s both him and father that remember. A true father and a magical one for her, and perhaps she is losing her mind after all.

Dealing with Rumpelstiltskin is becoming increasingly difficult, and Regina grows frustrated and anxious when his lessons don’t seem to be taking her anywhere. He accuses her of impatience, wording her incompetence in poems and riddles that grate endlessly on her nerves. He abuses her every chance he gets, mocks her in a way that would have weaker spirits crying in a second, but that only manage to make Regina more stubborn before him.

“I suppose you are your mother’s daughter, after all, dearie,” he tells her. “Same mule headed behavior, but none of Cora’s finesse.”

Regina wonders at Rumpelstiltskin’s past with mother constantly, but he dodges her questions easily, directing her to magical efforts and keeping his mouth shut. She suspects they were lovers once, and Regina hates the thought that the golden little imp may have been a better suited match for mother’s imperious character than father, weak and malleable in her hands. She even wonders, at her craziest, if Rumpelstiltskin is her real father, but the idea is both ludicrous and disgusting, and even if it were true, Regina wouldn’t take anyone other than father as her only real family.

Rumpelstiltskin never gives anything away about himself, but Regina’s not stupid and she knows enough not to trust him. She does her best at researching him, but the palace’s library is not particularly well stocked in magical related books. She does find an old tome that speaks briefly of the curse of the Dark One, and Regina realizes who it is she’s dealing with soon enough, even if the knowledge doesn’t give her any actual leverage over her overbearing master.

She grows tired of him and fights him intermittently, refusing his demands even when he only seems to find her insistence on resistance somewhat amusing. He punishes her with inconsistency and games, disappearing for days at a time and then demanding her presence at strange hours, taunting her whenever she finds herself doubting that his brand of dark magic is the path she wants to follow.

Regina does have her doubts, if only because she can only channel her magic properly when she lets go and allows her heart to be filled with anger. She resists the pull, and so her control wavers and escapes her, in turn making her increasingly frustrated. She doubts that magic will bring her any sort of revenge or power, even if now that she’s been made aware of it, it’s a comforting presence around her. She feels it somewhere at the back of her head, crawling down her spine, a permanent hum craving release, and it both exhilarates her and scares her.

Her misgivings about her chosen path never falter more than when she meets Tink, a blonde haired fairy with a smile too big for her face and so much enthusiasm that it overwhelms Regina. The circumstances of their first meeting haunt her, her own fall to the ground making her question herself and her own mind, which is still undecided on whether the plunge she took from her balcony had been voluntary or a mere accident. She chooses to believe the latter, and for the span of a few days, relishes on the idea of having found a friend. It’s such a foreign concept for her – a _friend._

Then there’s pixie dust, a supposed soul mate somewhere in a tavern and expectations. Of course Tink would want something from her, something that she can’t possibly allow herself. She’d told her that she wanted Snow’s head on a plate, and even if her thoughts on that change from one second to the other, she can’t be expected to let go of her loss so easily in the arms of an unknown man. The man with the lion tattoo may have been pointed to her by light magic, but Regina has a broken heart with walls around it, a dam of feelings for her lost love that she’s afraid will spill over and end her if she lets it. She doesn’t _want_ a man, doesn’t need a savior or an escape route. All she needs is herself, and whatever it is that she can build with her pain.

She returns to Rumpelstiltskin and all he has for her is a giddy and smug smile, which Regina ignores as she demands a faster pace to her lessons. The man may be a horrendous monster full of mystery, but his offer is power in her own hands, and after all, he did remember her birthday.

 

* * *

 

If her birthday goes unnoticed, Regina expects Snow’s to be a grand affair, so she can only be surprised when she’s informed of the king’s absence on the day of the event. Soon enough, she also finds out that such event is not to be celebrated at all, and that no matter how much she asks, the information as to _why_ is not to be disclosed. As a matter of fact, her question is regarded with disdain, which only manages to make Regina more and more curious about the whole business. With how much the king reveres his daughter, she had assumed that a big celebratory ball would be held tonight.

Finally, she chooses to ask Baroness Irene, a plump old woman who thrives on gossip and inappropriateness. She doesn’t stop much by the palace, but when she does, she’s full of stories and scandal, and even if half of them are usually lies, Regina forces herself to share tea and pastries with her rigorously, so she can figure just how many of her tales hold some truth. The woman did take a shine to her when they met, if only because it makes her happy to love and enjoy that which everyone else finds distasteful. The day they’d met, she’d grabbed Regina’s chin in a tight grip and with a too wide smile had proclaimed her  _an extraordinary beauty, my little darling_ and had decided that they would be the best of friends. Aside from their shared tea time, Regina does her best at avoiding her overwhelming presence, but today, she seeks her out in her search for answers.

“Oh, my silly little darling,” she answers with what she must think is a wicked smile, but that comes off as a foolish grin. “Don’t you know? Beloved Queen Eva died on this very same day, so no one celebrates the child’s birthday, in deference to her mother.”

Regina files the information away, and wonders what to do with it. The shadow of the former queen has followed her around since she first came to live at the palace, the reverent whispers of her natural kindness, her light beauty and her candidness making Regina feel lacking by default. Mother had described her as a conniving little harpy, but everyone else in court is so enamored with her that Regina is positively sure she never even stood a chance.

There are several portraits of her around the palace, both with and without her family, and she certainly looks the part, regal but amiable, her smile filled with light and ease. There had been a portrait made of Regina as well not too long ago, and she’d come out looking sullen and angry, like a prudish and brooding child, and the comparison had been inevitable, much more so when Snow looked more and more like her mother, and when Regina had forgotten how to smile.

More than anything, Queen Eva seems to be an ever-present figure in her bedchambers, tied forever into the heart of a king that still loves her dearly, and can’t find any warmth with his new wife. He’d talked about her one night, his speech long and winding and full of adoration as he looked through the balcony opening outside, at the stars in the sky, as if picturing her face there. Regina, laying naked and used on her bed and staring at the hunched back of her elderly husband, had found herself throwing a goblet full of wine against the wall, delighting herself in the loud crashing sound and the red liquid staining the floor.

Once the king had turned to look at her, alarmed expression in his doltish face, she’d sneered and hissed, “Too bad you can’t fuck a memory.”

Regina’s sure he’d wanted to hit her after that, thinks that the way he’d held one of his wrists with his opposing hand had been nothing but a weak attempt at stopping his most primitive instincts. Regina, for her part, had made a monumental effort not to taunt him anymore, even if the way he flinched around her was a source of cruel amusement for her.

Today, the king proves his miser behavior once more by choosing his dead wife over her living daughter, and so after a quiet walk around the gardens, Regina decides to find Snow so she can give her her birthday wishes, no matter the apparent inappropriateness of the gesture. It doesn’t take her long to find the princess, since the girl is sitting by Regina’s apple tree, clad in the saddest little black gown and crying disconsolately while sitting on the ground, face buried in her arms. Regina doesn’t truly understand how someone can tie grief so easily to one particular day, not when she has to make an effort every second of every day to stop the thoughts of Daniel from consuming every part of her being, when she feels guilty every time she dares to laugh while her beloved shares his sleep with the dead. She knows suffering, though, and if only just to spite the king, she goes towards Snow and sits by her, schooling her features into the appropriate sadness for the occasion.

“Oh, my dear Snow,” she whispers, and she hates the falseness she spies in her tone, hates that her soothing words come from a place filled with so much bitterness.

Still, Snow looks up, and when Regina touches her hair with soft fingers, she gives her a weak smile. Then, quick and sudden, Snow leans forward and into Regina’s body, hiding herself against her chest, searching for comfort that Regina hasn’t truly offered. Regina’s not surprised, not with Snow’s natural tendency of always taking more than is volunteered, but she can’t help but feel a truthful twinge of pitiful tenderness for the child. She’s growing taller by the day, will be as tall as Regina in barely no time, but she feels infinitesimally small in Regina’s arms, and so Regina gives the embrace that she has been asked for, cradling Snow between her arms and with a tight grip.

The rich smell of apples and fresh grass surrounds them, and when Regina closes her eyes, she finds herself feeling completely and utterly weary. She hasn’t had any breakfast this morning, and her body is suddenly thankful for the support that Snow provides from her place between her arms. Regina gives into the feeling, finds that it’s far too easy to relax her stiff posture and allow herself to rest her cheek against Snow’s soft hair, receiving and giving comfort back in equal amounts. She finds that she’s so very _tired,_ and that for all of her sins, the girl between her arms might just be the only real respite she has from this life she’s living.

Purposefully ignoring the tightness on her throat that threatens tears, Regina moves back so she can look at Snow’s face. Tear tracks mar the beautiful rosy cheeks, and Regina dabs at them with soft and clumsy fingers, settling her hand tenderly under Snow’s chin when the girl sniffs in a futile attempt at stopping the water works.

Regina clears her throat and smiles, confused at how genuine the shape of her lips is. “Have you had any breakfast today?” When Snow shakes her head, Regina _tsks_ disapprovingly, scowling at her own unladylike reaction, but continuing with her light scolding a moment later. “That won’t do at all, dear. We’ll have an early lunch together in my chambers, and then perhaps we may spend the afternoon together. Would you like that, Snow?”

“Yes, please, so very much, Regina,” Snow answers, no smile adorning her lips but none of her usual affectations either. Snow feels more real in her grief than ever to Regina, and so she decides that if just for a day, she can afford to let herself feel something other than acrid rage for her step-daughter.

“Well then, dear, go get yourself into some lighter clothes while I speak to the cook.”

“Lighter clothes? But I–”

“Oh, Snow, your mother doesn’t need you to be clad in heavy black fabrics to know that you miss her,” Regina tells her, squeezing her hand when the mention of the former queen has Snow’s lips turning down into a frown. “Besides, the whole court doesn’t need to be witness to your grief, dear. It’s impolite for a lady to show so much emotion in public.”

Snow starts at Regina’s words, but then again, Regina does as well. It’s her mother speaking through her mouth and not herself, lessons learned and marked by fire under Regina’s skin marring her honest intentions so very easily. Regina shakes herself from it, though, doesn’t allow the nostalgia for a mother than she both misses and doesn’t want to ever see again taint this day that she has just offered Snow, and simply sends the girl away so she can go down to the kitchens and ask for a special meal to be prepared.

Walking into the kitchens, Regina is surprised by an unexpected wave of hunger making her stomach growl uncharacteristically. More than hungry, though, she’s feeling capricious, and she welcomes the sensation with a smile as she speaks to one of the kitchen’s maids that she knows to have a soft spot for father and knowledge of his favorite dishes so she can order a peculiar kind of meal to be brought up to her bedchambers.

By the time Snow shows up in her chambers, clad in a light muslin dress that makes her look her age and not like some severe old widow, Regina’s table is filled up to the brim, the rich smell of food wafting up to her nose pleasantly. Snow has a hard time smiling, and there’s still anguish etched in the corner of her eyes and making her usually buoyant movements sluggish and tired, but when Regina asks her to try spicy snacks that she’s never had before, she seems to liven up. Regina laughs at her when some of her picks are too hot for Snow’s unaccustomed palate, and as she offers her a goblet filled with water, she realizes that she’s been unconsciously eating as well, the small bites of food falling satisfactorily in her stomach, and her own tongue richly filled with taste. There’s joy in sharing a meal, much more so when Snow questions its origins and for the first time since they met, allows Regina to fill the conversation with her own mindless blabber about father’s home and its unusual culinary tastes.

“Now try this,” Regina says, offering Snow a tray laden with small blocks of dark chocolate.

Snow does but soon scrunches her nose at the taste, leaving the piece she’s taken back in the tray. “It’s too bitter,” she states, even going as far as sticking her tongue out in distaste.

Regina huffs, a laugh hidden somewhere in the sound, and even as she offers a second tray of sweeter chocolate, she declares, “You would think so, dear.”

“You like it, though?”

Regina nods as she takes a piece for herself, and before she nibbles on it, carefully ascertains, “It’s my favorite.” And, as an afterthought, “Daddy always brings me a piece when I’m not feeling well.”

Softly, wistfully, Snow says, “I would always pester the kitchen maids for treats in between meals, and mother tried to get mad at me but always ended up giving in anyway. I once ate so much jam I made myself sick, and she couldn’t even lecture me on it I was feeling so awful.”

Regina tries to smile at the sharing of memories, but it’s hard not to think of what her punishment would have been had she been the protagonist of Snow’s story. Would Snow balk if Regina told her how mother starved her out in a dark cellar for three days when she broke a jar of gooey jam that she didn’t even get to taste? Would she be surprised by the true nature of her mother, who had so easily fooled her into revealing Regina’s most dear secret?

Regina shakes her head, as if the physical gesture may help keep her own memories away, and with what she hopes is a sufficiently joyful tone, asks, “Would you like to take a walk in the gardens, dear?”

Snow nods her assent, and so they spend the rest of the day walking with slow steps through the palace gardens. It’s cold outside and they’ve failed to cover themselves properly, but as if in silent agreement, they choose to keep going, huddling close together as their legs move and Snow’s hand rests comfortably in Regina’s. The weather of this part of the kingdom is colder than it had been back in father’s state, a little less humid but not less dark, and truth be told Regina has enjoyed it thus far. It seems to her that it would have been unnatural of her to live in such misery when the sun is shining high in the sky, and so the grey clouds have become welcome friends. Today, Snow seems to agree with her, her demeanor matching the cold weather, her usual chatter buried under her grief.

They walk for long hours, and when they get tired, Regina picks up a few light pink roses that she later braids into Snow’s hair, never mind the dirty look that Fritz sends their way when he catches them sitting down together, Regina’s hands combing through Snow’s long locks. They finish their time outside by Regina’s tree, and doing her best at keeping her own nostalgia buried in her chest, Regina tears down two ripe apples and offers one to a softly smiling Snow.

By the time they go back inside the palace, night has fallen upon them and the cold is nearly unbearable, so they find themselves running indoors with their hands still clasped together and laughing stupidly, mindless of members of the court who look at them, some with disapproval in their eyes, but most of them with a certain sigh of fondness in their gazes, and perhaps Regina should have understood before that her way into the court’s heart is through Princess Snow White.

Today, though, and just today, Regina doesn’t care about the court, her status, her horrible husband or even her evil magical teacher. Today she feels young and caring, and so when she reaches her bedchambers with Snow still in tow, she chucks mother’s lessons through the window and instead takes a page from father’s book. Snow’s looking at her sheepishly, staring at Regina’s table, already set for dinner, and knowing that she should probably retire for the night to her own bedchambers.

Regina, biting her lip softly and with something of a mischievous tilt to her smile, motions towards Snow and then towards her bed, saying, “Here, help me with this.”

Soon enough, Regina’s guiding Snow through the steps of building a sort of tent made of nothing but bed linens supported by sturdy chairs. They bring cushions down to the floor, as well as candles that create an eerie glow in the otherwise darkened room, and Regina sets the sweetest treats from her table down for their improvised picnic. Then, she tells Snow that their clothes won’t do for the occasion, and so she changes into one of her thick nightgowns and puts Snow in one as well, the length of the skirt and sleeves on her shorter frame making them both giggle as they finally settle down.

Regina breathes out slowly, and then regales Snow with the story of how father would make tents like this for her, and how they would eat treats together while father told her ancient folk tales in his smooth, tranquil voice. She doesn’t tell her how mother had stopped their game when Regina had turned six years old, perhaps not only because it wasn’t an appropriate amusement for a little lady but because in their mindlessness they’d managed to burn more than one set of fine linens.

Later, she gives Snow the birthday present she’d had prepared for the day, a small light pendant shaped as two lovebirds. At the time, she’d wanted something pretty and appropriate, but sufficiently impersonal that it would hardly be of consequence, but now, she wishes she’d given more thought to both the gift and the occasion.

“Thank you, Regina,” Snow says, ever the polite little girl. The words are whispered low and intimate, though, their tone more genuine than Regina’s ever heard from Snow, and she knows that she’s thanking her for more than the worthless pendant.

Regina doesn’t answer, but allows herself to reach out and press the back of her fingers gently to Snow’s face, glide them slowly down to her chin. Snow looks sad, so very sad, and the fact that she’s still trying to put on a brave face for Regina manages to warm her heart. Ever the little lady, Snow doesn’t seem to want to break down when she’s trying to be grateful.

Wistfully, Regina tells her, “It’s alright if you’re hurting, my dear.”

As if being given permission breaks something inside her, Snow’s tears come unbidden then. Regina is the one to bring her closer this time, and Snow follows, pliant until she’s resting with her arms around Regina’s neck, her breathing soft but betrayed by hitches when she hides her face against Regina’s neck. Regina tightens comforting arms around her and finds her own set of tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. She’s not particularly sure why she feels like allowing her own tears to fall, but then, she has so many reasons to cry.

Snow ends up falling asleep on the floor, big cushions under her making a makeshift bed that looks sufficiently comfortable. Her breathing is slow and steady, chest rising gently under the fabric of Regina’s gown. She looks very young, and Regina marvels at the idea that she actually _is_ young. Sometimes it feels as if they’ve been holding onto a blood feud for years, something ancient and dark that they never asked for but that burdens their shoulders anyway, condemning them to an unknown fate. Regina’s nineteen years old, and most days she feels as if she’s lived enough for a dozen lifetimes. Tonight, though, after giggles and shared heartache, she feels so very much like a little girl trapped in circumstances beyond her control.

When tiredness is ready to claim her, Regina puts out the candles and grabs two thick blankets from her bed that she throws over Snow and herself once she lays down by the princess, choosing to spend the night on uncomfortable cushions rather than on her own bed. Thoughtlessly, she searches for Snow’s hand under the covers and threads their fingers together, thankful for the reprieve that the day has offered her. Before she falls asleep, she grimaces at the thought that, in a different lifetime, they could have been the most beloved of sisters.

 

* * *

 

Next morning begins with a knock at her door and the figure of King Leopold walking into her bedchambers, uninvited. He makes for a strange image standing still by her door, silly hair a little wilder than usual and eyes set into a confused frown, and it takes Regina a while to grasp that the sight is jarring because he’s never walked into her chambers while there’s light outside. The sudden starkness in her posture is second nature, and the scowl that mars her features disrupts her. She wants him to go away, doesn’t ever want to see him invading her days when he’s already an intruder in her nights.

Snow welcomes him with unbridled joy, though, laughing when she trips on her long nightgown on her way to hug the king. Regina feels sharply betrayed by the sight, but pulls herself together quickly as Snow begins to squeal her way through a butchered story of the day they’d shared together. It makes something heavy sit by Regina’s breastbone, their intimate moments being so easily disclosed. She feels sick.

“That all sounds lovely, darling,” Leopold says, and his smile makes Snow answer in kind so very swiftly that Regina can do nothing but deepen her scowl.

Gone is the hurt, betrayed little girl from yesterday, and Regina would feel the cold shreds of hatred consume her if only she wasn’t busy keeping herself together for the king. Leopold refuses to look at her, of course, and Regina wishes he would just so she could silently judge his cowardice at leaving his treasured child to fend for her own while he did his own lonely mourning. Even mother’s particular brand of cruelty wasn’t as cold as Leopold’s selfishness; misguided in her efforts or not, Regina can’t deny that she was always at the forefront of mother’s thoughts.

“Come now, Snow,” Leopold intones. “I have a present for you.”

They make as if to leave, and while Regina is busy curtseying, her head bent low, she doesn’t spy Snow moving towards her until she’s already in her space, arms around her in a tight embrace. Regina bristles, startled by the suddenness of the touch, but rests her hand on top of Snow’s head anyway, her fingers catching on the petals that she braided there yesterday and that have already started to perish. Regina wants Snow to move away with a nearly hysterical need, unhinged by the juxtaposition of her own feelings, but when she catches Leopold’s flinch at Snow’s gesture, she clings tighter.

Impetuously, Regina smirks at the king, secretly loving how his eyes shift away from her and his daughter, anxious. Now more than ever Regina wants Snow to love her. So far, Snow has treated her as a bit of a toy, adoring her in given days but completely forgetting about her in others. There will be no more of that, for Regina will not only take great joy in stealing as much of Snow’s affection from her father as she can, but Snow will hurt more once Regina reveals herself as the vengeful force that she knows she will become if she has deep feelings for her.

With an easy smile, Regina looks down and into Snow’s eyes, tucking one loose strand of hair gently behind her ear so their gazes meet more firmly. “Now don’t fret dear, we will do this every year if it pleases you.”

“Oh yes, Regina! That will be… so very delightful.” The lovely wistfulness of Snow’s tone reaches Regina’s heart, but how can that possibly matter now, when it was Snow who broke it in the first place?

 

* * *

 

New purpose found, Regina pours her energies into reshaping her relationship with Snow once again. It’s not particularly hard, considering what a blabbermouth the princess is and how starved she seems to be for affection from someone other than the continuous string of older members of the court that occupy the palace.

First of all, she reinstates their horse riding lessons, which Regina had abandoned when the dull ache of roaming the stables had gotten unbearable for her. The Master of the Stables isn’t quite happy ceding his pupil to her, but Regina is starting to realize that she is, after all, the queen, and expected to make demands. Snow is delighted of course, especially because she’s become quite an adept little rider, the incident which brought her into Regina’s life already a far away memory for her.

Snow’s other lessons are a completely different matter, one which Regina takes into her own hands and is adamantly serious about. She finds Snow’s education lacking, her father finding it easier to give into his daughter’s every whim and her teachers having fallen behind under the lack of supervision. Regina sends two of them packing away, keeping only the Music Master to continue Snow’s musical endeavors, never mind that the girl is as bad at playing the piano forte as Regina had been herself back in the day. She has a lovely voice, and she enjoys singing, though, so Regina allows her the pleasure in exchange for making the rest of her schooling far more strict. Regina takes on the task of teaching Snow herself, easily coming up with a lesson plan that mother would have approved of.

“Oh Regina,” Snow says at least twice a day during their lessons. “Mightn’t we go outside? It’s such a lovely day.”

It makes Regina crack her fingers noisily and roll her eyes, but she does try to be gentle when focusing Snow’s attention back on boring history lessons or geographical facts that the girl seems to have no interest on.

“A queen needs to understand all of this to rule wisely,” she berates, words falling from between her lips like the practiced lesson that they are. “You want to be a good queen, don’t you, dear?”

Snow always nods vigorously at that, and Regina lifts the corner of her lips in a grudging smile. Snow may want to be a good queen, but not as much as Regina wants her to be. Regina wants the princess to understand what it is exactly that she’s lost once Regina takes it away from her, she wants Snow to _want_ so desperately that the blow of her loss hurts deeply. Regina is going to make her the best aspiring queen she could hope to be, and then she’s not going to let her be one.

Regina accompanies Snow’s teaching plan with archery and sword fighting once the princess voices her interest in the physical subjects, quickly followed by the statement that her father has never allowed such disciplines to be taught to her. With something of an evil glint to her eye, Regina hires exclusive masters of the activities for Snow, which she pays for herself.

Having her own financial independence had been a bit daunting at first, even if mother had prepared her sufficiently to understand how to keep her own accounts clean and away from the king’s long fingers. State money is for him to decide upon, but her own allowance as the queen is for her to do as she pleases. She hasn’t had much use for it thus far, only splurging in expensive bath essences and the like, and the one midnight blue dress that she’d had the tailor make for her in a whim and that she hasn’t dared use on any occasion, deeming the dark color inappropriate to her usual activities. Now, she’s full of plans and ideas, and she welcomes the freedom she has in this one aspect of her life, particularly as it allows her to dote on Snow as she wishes.

As part of her new scheme, she invites Snow to have lunch or dinner with her at least twice a week, insistent that it’s just the two of them at her table, where they can talk and share without the intrusive presence of other nobles. Father joins them occasionally, and even when Snow finds him pleasant and enjoys his company, father acts embarrassed, as if he’s forgotten his station in life and feels inferior to the princess when he’s a prince himself, even if far away from ever becoming king. It hurts Regina, how easily father diminishes himself in front of these people who don’t need any more encouragement in their thoughts of ownership of their souls.

Eating with Snow is strangely nice, like some twisted remembrance of a shared family table back home. It helps Regina eat more and with gusto, especially since Snow seems to enjoy the foreign tastes of father’s land, even when she finds them too spicy. Regina realizes that her own cheeks and torso have begun to fill a bit more since she offered Snow a place at her table, notices how skinny she’d been getting and how she’d been skipping meals as of late. She hates owing Snow anything at all. She can’t deny that there’s more color in her cheeks these days, though, or that she doesn’t dread looking at her naked body in the mirror anymore, even if the bruises shaped like Leopold’s fingers on her hips make her feel ashamed and disgusted.

For every concession she makes in Snow’s name, though, she punishes either her or her father. Leopold is easier, if only because he dreads confronting Regina. It’s funny in a way, this man who has the power to abuse her and who makes use of that privilege often enough – twice a week, actually, the same since the beginning of their marriage – but who fears staring into her face, or opposing her in any way. Regina loathes his weakness, and takes pleasure in provoking him at every turn.

On one of their nights together, when he’s inside her and looking away as he always does, eyes firmly closed and body rutting painfully against hers, she impulsively grasps his puffy face with a firm hand and forces him to face her. He gasps, fear written in his eyes.

“Look at me, Your Majesty,” she tells him, nails digging harsh and deep into his flabby flesh, their red tips almost a sign of mock blood. “Look at what you’re doing to me.”

He jumps away as if burnt, tearing his way out of her painfully, but the look in his eyes is worth it, especially when he doesn’t touch her for a month after that. Confronting him with his own sins is easy and satisfying, even more when she sees him fighting with himself so as not to get truly violent with her.

Her punishment of Snow is lesser and subtler, tiny waves of discomfort that Regina takes petty pleasure in exacting. Johanna, Snow's closest friend among the staff of the palace and a round faced kindly woman who despises Regina on principle, keeps trying to tell Snow that someone must be misplacing her things all over the palace, that someone must be destroying the work that Regina sets for her and that always seems to get lost before it is due to be received, and that someone surely must have filled her bed with those flowers she’s so allergic to on purpose. Johanna never fails to look Regina’s way when she makes her accusations, but Snow would never conceive the idea that Regina may take frivolous delight in causing her such small distress.

When King Leopold gifts Snow with a fluffy, dreadful little thing that he swears is a bunny rabbit, Regina scowls at the animal but allows Snow to enjoy it for as long as a fortnight. She names it _Baron Fuffels,_ a title that has Regina rolling her eyes and that doesn’t stop her from killing the filthy little thing with something akin to glee. Snow cries for a week straight, and when Regina gives her a free day from her lessons and instead takes a walk with her through the gardens, clasping her hand tightly the whole time, she’s rewarded with an adoring smile.

One quiet afternoon, Snow drags her to her bedchambers to show her a collection of five dolls that she claims are her most treasured possession. She talks about each of them, tells Regina how Queen Eva would always bring one for her whenever she would take long trips with King Leopold to faraway lands, leaving her behind and with the promise of a safe return. Snow has tears in her eyes when she ends her story, confesses that she’d been so afraid of losing her mother while she was away on some other land that when she’d ended up falling into the hands of death in her own bed she’d hardly believed it, had thought it to be some elaborate joke. Regina’s heart clenches for her, but almost immediately falls deeply into an angry state of the most disagreeable jealousy. This little girl, with her perfect mother and her perfect dolls standing next to her, a woman disgraced, both a lacking daughter and a lacking mother, with nothing to show of her own mother’s love other than tough, sharp lessons etched into her skin.

Regina steals one of the dolls not long after, the one Snow had claimed to be her favorite. It’s a tiny thing, embroidered in too bright threads and sewn in cheap fabrics, and she knows all its value is sentimental. Regina practices her fireballs with it until it’s burned to a crisp. For weeks, Snow drives both servants and nobles mad in the futile search of the beloved doll, inconsolable at having lost it. Johanna eyes Regina warily, but she can hardly prove anything, much less so when Regina has destroyed all evidence of her crime.

Regina doesn’t remain inactive, though, and instead purchases fabric, thread and stuffing, and trains her nimble fingers into the fine art of doll making. She’s never sewn anything in her life, mother having more interest in her learning history and strategy over unnecessary skills that were fit for the laziest of maids, but she takes great pains to make a new doll all by herself. She sits outside by her apple tree, clumsily pricking her own fingers and discarding failing attempts with sighs of frustration before starting the task all over again.

“You know you could create one with magic, dearie,” Rumpelstiltskin insists on more than one occasion, giggling at her heavy-handedness and mocking her foolishness.

“I have to do it myself, imp, and the reasons are of no matter to you.”

Mother used to tell her that pantomimes, cheats and lies required as much compromise as possible; after all, the best cheater is the one who cheats the least, and so if Regina wants to make her tale of love for her step-daughter real, she needs to get as close to it as possible. So she saws clumsily, prickling her fingers and bleeding over her own gowns, frowning when the act seems to please the members of the court who catch sight of her work immensely. Nothing like a humble child willing to shed blood in exchange for the honors bestowed upon her to charm these stupid people, she guesses.

Regina ends up creating a funny looking doll with a crooked arm and one eye bigger than the other. Snow, who had thrown a doll her father had bought her away in the middle of a tantrum, receives her gift with trembling hands.

“You made this for me?” Snow asks, an incredulous tilt to her head.

Bashful and shrugging her shoulders, Regina smiles at her and looks up through lowered lashes. “I know it can’t substitute the one you lost and that it’s… well,” she laughs, self-deprecation easily slithered into her tone, “it’s a little funny looking, but–”

Snow doesn’t let her finish, flinging herself at Regina with ugly tears in her eyes, mumbling her gratitude against Regina’s collarbones. Regina’s used to Snow’s random bouts of affection, so embracing her back and resting a tender hand at the back of her head comes naturally already, just as much as flinching seems to be Leopold’s automatic response to watching this sort of fondness between Regina and his daughter.

Between tricks and lessons, time moves along at a quicker pace, Regina’s objectives slowly falling into place. Some nobles begin warming up to her, the slow trickle of trust in her person beginning with the most vapid of women and quickly moving through the rumor mill until it reaches their husband’s and father’s ears. Regina hates that it’s Snow’s approval what is gathering her positive attention, but she takes it in stride and takes advantage of her newfound position as she realizes that while whispers about her are still shaped in the form of _proud_ and _exotic_ , everyone approves of how devoted she is to her step-daughter.

“It’s so good to see you smile, Your Majesty,” Baroness Irene keeps telling her. “The child has been so good for you; I can hardly wait to see you radiant with pregnancy.”

The Baroness is as innocuous as they come, and how she thinks of herself as the epitome of transgression never fails to grate on Regina’s nerves, but she’s always been on her side, if only to be contrary. These days in which Regina is a little more at home among court members, the bumbling woman takes pride in being the first to see her best qualities. While Regina may despise her, she is a fantastic source of gossip, her plain and usual rude speeches giving her a privileged window into the collective thoughts of the court. And right now, she realizes that she’s been married to King Leopold for a little over two years, that she’s awfully close to her twenty first birthday, and that the kingdom is anxiously waiting for her to be a mother.

As time moves on and the expectation comes out in the open, even King Leopold begins expressing his desires for a child on regular occasion. He seems to think that a baby may mellow Regina’s character, and she suspects that he would free himself of his nightly visits to her bedchambers, which make him clearly anxious and uncomfortable, if she were to be with child. Regina thinks it may just be a relieving exchange for her as well, but then it would only mean selling her body to a child that she doesn’t want to bear rather than to a husband that she can’t stand. Whatever the case, she can’t force herself to get pregnant, no matter how much the Royal Doctor insists on her imbibing fertility tonics.

Regina grows tense and fidgety, turning snappish and finding it harder to keep up her façade when there isn’t a soul around her that she feels truly comfortable with. Even father isn’t enough consolation for her these days, not when he seems to think that if she were to be kinder to the king perhaps she might be happier. His words often feel like betrayal, and suddenly father’s weak spirit aggravates her. She finds herself snapping at Snow on regular occasions, too.

“Oh, _do_ shut up, dear, you’re giving me the most terrible headache,” she tells her one afternoon, as they’re resting by the apple tree, Regina trying to read while Snow prattles on about something inconsequential.

Snow gives her such a hurt little look that Regina apologizes almost immediately, even while feeling all the more angry at her. The princess is so sure of her position that a mere harsh remark makes her look like a kicked little pup, and Regina can’t help but fix her with a haughty look, reproving of Snow’s feeble character.

Regina learns to burn her distress through her magic lessons, but not even Rumpelstiltskin is free of her remarks and taunts. She calls him a faulty teacher, accuses him of purposefully delaying her training so he can keep her on a leash. Rumpelstiltskin laughs at her, eternally amused by her antics, and punishes her by disappearing for over a fortnight. It’s that which makes Regina search through mother’s belongings, try and find out more about the mysterious Dark One. She tries to detach herself from the process, makes haste in her search and ignores mother’s clothes, jewelry and perfumes, doing her best at avoiding anything that may bring back what few good memories she has of resting her tired self in mother’s embrace. What she does find is books, and so she reads up on the power held by the Dark One’s dagger, of whatever little history there is on the people who’ve been cursed in the past with the burden of darkness. There isn’t much on Rumpelstiltskin himself, but she does find out about other famous magic practitioners, witches and warlocks that have been secretly plaguing the world for centuries.

In her research, Regina finds Maleficent, and when Rumpelstiltskin finally comes back to her, she speaks of her admiration for the legendary sorceress openly, for which the imp sends her in an impossible journey to meet her. It’s so like him, answering her arrogance and taunt with arrogance of his own, punishing her with impossible tasks. Meeting Maleficent rattles her, not just because it makes her feel more secure in her magical abilities, makes her realize that perhaps Rumpelstiltskin’s right when he speaks of her lack of patience. There’s something personal and intimate that lingers within her, the memory of Maleficent leaning over her, tall, imposing but impossibly beautiful, her hand curled softly and so very close to Regina’s face, tantalizing. Regina finds herself swallowing lumps of emotion whenever she thinks of her, the hairs on her arms rising, something unfamiliar making her chest ache, yearning for something that she doesn’t quite understand.

She’s not the only one unnerved by her visit to Maleficent’s fortress, though, since her disappearance from the palace has her being received with great scandal, as if she’d run away perhaps forever. There are no signs of distress for her, though, no signs that what has plagued anyone is actual worry. As it is, nobles seem more concerned with the possibility of a good piece of gossip, as Regina hears nothing but speculations as she’s led to her bedchambers by two of the king’s guards. Everyone suspects a secret lover, and Regina wants to laugh in their faces, except that Maleficent’s scent still remains with her like an almost tangible memory.

King Leopold receives her in her bedchambers, hands behind his back and belly more prominent than ever, hair pressed down by his crown. He only ever wears the crown around her when he wants to seem imposing, as if he’s conscious that not even in his anger he manages to be commanding. He’s had a placid life after all, and he has no fighting spirit to oppose what he’s referred to before as Regina’s hysteria. This evening, as he sets half lidded eyes upon Regina, he rains actual fury on her, his cumbersome frame shaking with his frustration. With the waning light shining behind him and casting a long shadow on the floor, Regina can almost imagine imperiousness that the king doesn’t actually posses.

Regina laughs when he lectures her on her duties as the queen and rages about the rumors that mill about the castle.

“Is that it, Regina?” he questions, making a weak attempt at crowding her by stepping into her personal space, using his height advantage to try and cower her own stance. Regina’s known true grandiose presences, though, and she doesn’t even wince at his weak attempts at gaining the upper hand.

“Is it another man?” he asks again and again, his voice overwrought with emotion. “Is there a secret lover, my queen?” And he shakes her, hands big on her forearms, and Regina wonders if what he truly wants is to squeeze and squeeze until there’s no breath left inside her.

She laughs, laughs at him and at how pathetic he truly is. “How could you possibly blame me if there was, Your Majesty?”

He grunts, his anger heightened by her words and the easy dismissal of her tone, and when he shakes her harder she tries to free herself from his grip, rocking violently. For all of his weakness of spirit the king is stronger than her, and when he continues to hold her, she fights until she can free one arm long enough to slap him across the face, her hand firm in her touch. The harsh sound makes him stop, and bringing his own hand to the now reddening spot on his face, he deflates immediately, his rage as quick to go as it was to appear. His eyes soften as he looks at her, and Regina wonders is she looks as feral as she feels, if he thinks her a savage. Whatever he sees in her makes him lift a flaky hand to her cheek, touch the pads of his fingers to her flushed skin, probably not realizing that Regina prefers his fury to his tenderness.

“I apologize, my queen, but I was ever so worried. I was afraid someone may have hurt you or taken you for themselves; you are so very beautiful, after all.”

Regina’s eyes flash at the admission, her skin bristling as the king’s hand moves to rest at her neck. “You think me beautiful, Your Majesty?”

He smiles, clearly thinking that he’s conquered her, that her vanity is somehow stronger than her ire. “But of course, my queen, surely you know that.”

She smiles, sickly sweet, and in slow and practiced moves takes the king’s free hand and moves it from her forearm to her breast, pressing it there and forcing him to cup her through her clothes. She feels nothing but disgust at what fails to be a caress, but the suspicious surprise she sees in his eyes makes her push even harder.

“Won’t you touch me then, if my beauty is such as you speak? Won’t you make me shiver with anticipation, make me quiver at the very thought of your touch, Your Majesty?” She tilts her head, curious, enchanting, her teeth finding her lower lip as she grips the king’s second hand and brings it down until it’s resting between her legs, only the thin fabric of her dress protecting her from complete contact with his skin. “Why is it that if you find my beauty so enthralling, such a danger to my own integrity, you insist on mounting me as if I were an old mare? Oh, my king, but if only you tried you could make me _so very wet._ ”

Regina’s lips pop at her last word, and King Leopold jumps, as if coming out of a hypnotizing spell. His eyes, wide as saucers, do nothing to hide revulsion, and he’s quick to move his hands away from Regina’s body and to take a couple of clumsy steps to put distance between them.

“You have the devil in you,” he intones. “I should have known better, being Cora’s child.”

Regina frowns, King Leopold’s words completely unexpected. “What do you mean by that? What do you know of my mother?”

The king is already leaving her chambers, though, his back turned to her and his steps quick and firm, as if he can’t get away from her fast enough. He does stop by the frame of the door, and with the clearest intonation she’s ever heard from him, he instructs the guard, “The queen isn’t feeling quite alright; send a bath and supper for her, but make sure she doesn’t leave her chambers until I deem it appropriate.”

Eyes wide and bewildered, Regina yells out, “You’re locking me up?”

The king’s gone though, coward even in his orders, not willing to be forceful with her but always ready to use his influence to hold her down. Now more than ever does Regina feel like a possession, something that the king doesn’t truly want but that won’t part with in the secure knowledge that she belongs to him. She stifles a shout, and stomps her feet forcefully against the floor, walking from one end of the room to another in a weak attempt at focusing her contempt in something other than destruction. She fails, and a pretty vase that Snow had filled with fresh flowers for her this morning pays the price, smashing satisfactorily against the wall and crumbling to pieces on the floor. Regina’s ready to continue her shattering impulses, but she stops herself when she hears a familiar giggle fill up the room, quickly followed by Rumpelstiltskin appearing before her.

“That was quite a performance, dearie. I enjoyed it.”

Rolling her eyes, Regina crosses her arms over her chest. The last person she needs to be dealing with right now is her so called teacher. “Rumpel, go away.”

Rumpelstiltskin doesn’t listen, of course, but rather makes a show of sitting gingerly at the edge of the bed and crossing his legs as some kind of distinguished nobleman, quickly following this movement with his most childish, “No, I don’t think I will.”

“Fine, have it your way, imp.” Regina huffs, and happy to ignore the second presence in her bedchambers, she continues with her pacing, trying to shake all her feelings away. It all seems futile, but then, as she stares at Rumpelstiltskin still resting comfortably on her bed, she blinks at him and says, “You could teach me that trick.”

“And what trick would you be referring to, dearie?”

“Moving from one place to another; clearly His Bumbling Majesty has no qualms about keeping his precious exotic pet locked up.” Halting her speech and squaring her shoulders to make herself taller, Regina requests, “I would like to be able to escape my prison whenever I deem it necessary.”

“You’re not ready, dearie. It would take you months to master the art.”

“I don’t care. Teach me!”

At her demand, Rumpelstiltskin merely hums, as if deep in thought. It’s all an act, of course, a part of the obvious joy he takes in his own theatricality, one that Regina barely manages to put up with on most occasions, particularly since Rumpelstiltskin doesn’t need to give her request any thought; he probably knew what she was going to ask before coming here.

Finally, as if taking great pains on her behalf, Rumpelstiltskin waves a dismissive hand up in the air and stands up with a funny little jump. “I suppose I could consider making you a deal.”

“A deal?”

“Why yes, dearie. If you want to change my lesson plan, you can afford to make a deal for your wishes.” Pushing his hands behind his back and smiling knowingly at her, he intones his most favorite saying, “Magic does, after all, always come with a price.”

Considering, Regina questions, “And what would you have in exchange?”

Rumpelstiltskin doesn’t answer immediately, rather taking his sweet time circling her and letting silence linger between them. It exasperates Regina, but she lets him play his little game as he wishes, watching warily as he comes up behind her and doing her best at repressing a shiver when he lays rough, scaly hands on her shoulders. Rumpelstiltskin doesn’t need height or drama to be imposing, his mere presence evoking fear even through his ridiculous antics. Finally, he moves his hand towards her neck, and one of his fingers grasps the golden chain she’s wearing around it. He pulls, carefully bringing the chain up until Daniel’s ring, up until then carefully nestled between Regina’s breasts, comes out from her cleavage and dangles before her. She clutches at the chain immediately, pulling it back towards her with a sharp tug.

“You can’t have that,” she states.

“Well, that’s a shame, wouldn’t you agree, dearie?”

She pulls once more, until the chain falls away from Rumpelstiltskin’s grasp on it. “You can’t have it,” she repeats.

Behind her, Rumpelstiltskin takes a step back as he sighs. “No deal, then.”

Regina nods, the chain still firmly clasped inside her fisted hand as she turns around to face the imp, frown firmly settled in her features. Her first intention is to scold him in some way or other, but instead she finds her shoulders sagging, dropping low and hunched. She’s so very tired, exhausted really, and she just doesn’t have it in her to fight her teacher right now. King Leopold’s lockdown may be humiliating, but perhaps she could do with some resting time for herself. Nothing sounds more appealing than a bath and a few hours of sleep.

“Go away, Rumpel.”

“Sure, dearie, enjoy your cell.”

Regina huffs, saying, “I’ve had worse.”

Rumpelstiltskin’s already gone, though, a cloud of purple smoke the only sign that he was really here. Sighing tiredly, Regina drops all her weight on the bed, the comfortable mattress a blessing against her sore limbs. She’s still holding onto her chain, and without looking at it, she just pushes the ring back under her clothes, so it rests against her naked skin, warm and solid. She looks around her, at the spacious bedchamber drowned in the pinkish dawning light of the late evening and figures that her last statement is nothing but the truth. As far as jail cells go, she has had far worse than this. The memories of a dark, dank cellar and full days spent inside, withering and being starved out are never truly far away from her mind, and so she can’t truly say that her actual plight is all that horrible. She snorts, loud and unladylike, and smiles to herself.

“Is that what you were doing, mother?” she speaks out loud, as if mother was somewhere in the room with her. “Were you being my worst nightmare so that no one would come even close, making me strong just by making me endure your punishments? It sounds like your twisted brand of love.”

And it must have been, for after all, what threat can anyone pose to Regina, when she’s been taught to control every bit of herself? They can hold her, try to starve her, try to break her as much as they want. After surviving Cora, though, all forms of abuse will feel like a feeble attempt at hurting her. Regina laughs, perhaps hysterically so, and looks up at the ceiling tiredly, feeling numb.

“Oh mother, look at what you’ve made of me,” she whispers. “The queen of the empty rooms.”

* * *

 

The night of her twenty second birthday, Regina wakes up while the darkness still lingers outside, and vomits her light dinner. She doesn’t give it much importance, shrugging it off without care even when she’s not prone to being sick when she isn’t directly causing herself to be. Anything seems better than putting up with the Royal Doctor, whom she knows informs the king of her every visit, and so she chooses to let it pass, nearly forgetting about it.

Forgotten is her birthday as well, but then again that’s not new. She could have stopped aging when she married Leopold for all the attention that her growing up gathers, and in any case she’s not particularly keen on reminding everyone around her of her real age. She would rather make them guess and whisper, knowing herself safe from speculation of being too old since she’s younger than most of the court, and a child when standing next to the king.

Snow’s birthday is coming up soon, though, and Regina knows that she has to come up with just the perfect gift for her. The princess will be fourteen this year, and she’s growing up beautiful and kind if vastly self-righteous. She’s not vapid, though, one of Regina’s worst fears, and she appreciates Regina’s thoughtful presents as well as her well-planned lessons far more than whatever impersonal luxury she may receive from anyone else. Spending Snow’s birthday together has also turned into a very particular tradition for the both of them, just as Regina promised that first year, but she knows that the festivity doesn’t require any particular preparation other than the clean linens of Regina’s bed and a table filled with sweet and foreign treats. She may just ask the cook to make something tasty and sugary with the ripest apples from her tree this year.

The days in the palace trickle slow and sure, suspended in time by almost constant damp and cold weather. Regina has learned to appreciate it, particularly enjoying the cold wind against her face when she rides atop _Rocinante_ , one of the few things that she still takes a genuine pleasure in partaking. Tea parties with noblewomen and idle chats in the courtyards are nothing but a burden, but she has managed to build herself a good enough reputation to make people forget her origins and their initial reluctance to her persona. She’s not particularly sure anyone likes her, but she has created a quiet air of mystery and sadness that noblemen enjoy whispering about, and has managed to counteract it with open devotion for her step-daughter.

Father, smaller by the day, has settled himself completely in his role as valet, having seemingly forgotten his own title and upbringing. Regina finds it sad, but then father always smiles when he’s speaking to Fritz or Johanna, and always seems impossibly uncomfortable when faced with anyone from his equal status. Mother would have been appalled at his behavior, but Regina lets him be as best as she can, happy that he still finds her in the darkness of her room every once in a while, offering treats just the same as when she was twelve and they were back at the manor. She can’t help but feel ashamed on his behalf, though, much more so when she discovers that he’s having some sort of affair with one of the kitchen maids, something so inadequate and that would rub on Regina’s own reputation so horribly if it were to be discovered. She doesn’t have it in herself to be cruel to him, though, and since he seems to be of so little consequence at court, she simply does her best at accepting his quiet brand of love and nothing else.

It’s Rumpelstiltskin who acts as the father figure that she needs these days, even if Regina loathes the idea. Their lessons are as frustrating as ever, but ever since he sent her to Maleficent, he’s developed the habit of sending her to meet other magical creatures and magic users, expanding her world through his impossibly long list of acquaintances. There’s a scary blind witch who enjoys eating the flesh of children, a strange doctor and a portal jumper that are Regina’s last hope of ever seeing Daniel again, a gnome with an eerie laugh, and so on.

Rumpelstiltskin’s lesson become harder and more demanding as well, and after he applauds Regina for taking her first heart and crushing it to dust, she refuses to see him for a little over a week. Initially, having the power of life and death had been exhilarating, and Regina had grabbed at it impulsively and thoughtlessly, as she’s prone to do these days. Her own sin had caught up with her soon after, and she’d found herself almost inexplicably sad, looking at her hands and falling into random bouts of desperate sobbing for days on end. Rumpelstiltskin had expressed disappointment, and had actually slowed down her lessons for a time, calling her out as weak and purposeless. When the word weak had come from his lips, Regina had aimed an impetuous fireball at him, missing him by miles but prompting her to hone into that destructive instinct with glee.

“I do like your anger so very much, dearie,” he’d said.

Regina knows she’s turning twisted, not quite her mother but not quite herself anymore either. She doesn’t remember her last genuine thought, and sometimes she has a hard time grasping her own feelings, as if she can only prod at them through the haziness of her own pantomime. The more controlled her outside persona becomes, the crazier she feels inside, as if her own wits were escaping her, like dust falling through her fingers, or water slipping away.

Sometimes, she even fools herself into thinking that she could be this for the rest of her life; the quiet, sad little queen, too different to gentle Queen Eva to be fully loved, but adequate and sufficiently enchanting in her tragedy; the loving step-mother, even if her love is untrue and bitter, mixed with shards of hatred and forever contaminated by blood spilled on the past; the irritable wife why nothing but a dried up desert between her thighs, condemned to be eventually forgotten and left alone; the eternal student, full of potential but incapable of greatness; lacking, forever lacking but always close enough.

But then Regina’s life always takes the hardest of turns, reminding her that, after all, she’s not handling things as well as she thinks. This time, it’s the Royal Doctor that brings her out of her stupor, reminding her of their monthly revision for next week, and making the past few weeks click into place sharply. Suddenly, the night of her twenty second birthday isn’t as dismissible as she’d wanted it to be. And it hasn’t been the only sign, but Regina’s gotten so used at ignoring her body that she’s been quickly forgetting all the telltales of the reality that the doctor has brought forward with a single remark. Regina hasn’t bled this month, and the nausea she’s been feeling as of late can’t be explained by mere exhaustion. The heavy pain of her breasts, more present than ever early in the mornings makes sense to her now, just as her urge to empty her stomach when King Leopold had last visited her and the sugary sweet smell of rum on his breath had wafted up to her nostrils. It had all been so easy to dismiss, that she doesn’t want to admit to herself that she must be pregnant.

When the realization hits her, she hides herself in her chambers, hand muffling a hysterical scream and breath quick, harsh, eyes open wide with incredulity. She brings one hand to her lower belly, curls it like a claw over the thick fabric of her dress, digs her nails in painfully, intent on punishing her body for its latest betrayal. Suddenly, her carefully woven web of lies and subtleties seems absurd, her restlessness over a revenge that hasn't taken real shape yet nothing but a way into fooling herself into the thought that she had something akin to a purpose in life.

She doesn't want this child, this thing forced upon her by the rough hands of a man she despises, this little insect growing inside her and that belongs to a family that she refuses to call hers. Hands trembling, shaking with fraught nerves and disgust, she scrambles with her own clothes, lifts her skirts and gathers the fabric around her waist until she can press nimble fingers to the skin of her belly. It feels smooth, much too smooth, and she frantically searches for a mirror so that she can look at it, find something different and morbid within it, something deformed. She sees nothing but clean, olive skin, no physical signs of the destruction that will come to be inside her.

Days pass, slow like molasses, Regina's head constantly hazy and dizzy, and she finds herself distracted and unfocused, stumped on what to do. Once the doctor sees her and guesses at her state, the shackles around her wrists will only tighten, condemning her to be mother to a child that is half Leopold's, when the mere thought of being the temporary home of something of his makes her sick to her stomach. Whatever is growing inside her is an unwanted intruder, and Regina pictures it clawing at her entrails, consuming her, sucking up her energies and taking valuable life away from her.

She considers getting rid of it, knows that there are tonics and potions that will kill it, even if they might kill her as well. The thought haunts her, makes her drag her own nails painfully over her abdomen, white pressure lines giving way to faint bloody traces. And yet... and yet she can't bear the thought of losing this thing inside her, this innocent parasite that is half hers. Years ago, right after losing Daniel, her period had been late and for a few days, Regina had fancied herself pregnant. She'd thought about how to go about it, had dreamed of having Daniel's child and raising it as the king's, fooling everyone around her, and had thought that enough to make her happy, even with Daniel gone. She'd cried bitter tears when she'd woken up to blood on her sheets.

Now here she is, with child, as part of a cosmic joke that no one ever thought to tell her. It had always been a possibility, but when she'd failed to get pregnant for so long she'd thought herself infertile, or the king too old to conceive. Here it is, though, this life rooted inside her without permission, thoughtless and despised just on principle.

The answer comes to Regina a day before her date with the doctor is due, when she's pulling her hair in a feeble attempt at focusing her blurry thoughts. She knows that if she has this child she will grow to hate it, will loathe how it came into existence and will abhor every single sign of affection that its father will be shown. She'll poison the child, will both show it no love and teach it to hate. But if she leaves the palace, then perhaps they'll have a chance. She could forget about revenge, about power and magic and being a queen, run away and have this child just for herself, love it mindlessly, unconditionally and have it be hers and only hers, make it be both her second chance and a source for the love she's been lacking all these past years.

Her mind made up, Regina prepares to make her escape that very night, packing light riding leathers, a pouch of gold coins and some easy travelling food, soft breads, cheese and a few pieces of fruit. She dresses herself in faded browns and dons a heavy cape with a hood big enough to cover her face with. Once night falls, and before she can lose her nerve, she slips unnoticed to the stables and prepares _Rocinante._ She caresses his muzzle with hands that she refuses to admit are trembling, waking him up from his slumber. _Rocinante_ may just be the only real companion she has left, and so she mounts him with practiced ease, and then rides away as fast as _Rocinante_ can run.

 

* * *

 

For days, Regina does nothing but ride forward, putting as much distance between herself and the palace as she can. She has no clear direction, but lately she's been thinking that she may try her luck with her long forgotten family. The truth is she doesn't even know if Grandfather Xavier lives still, or if he would be kind enough to hide a pregnant queen rather than return her to her rightful husband, but she doesn't have many options available, at least not until the baby is born. Once she has the child, she can move to some far away village, claim to be a widow and learn any trade available, make a simple life for her and her child. Her hands aren't particularly well trained in anything, but she's resilient and now has something to lose, so she knows she can survive. If everything else fails, she can pull what little knowledge Rumpelstiltskin has instilled in her about potions to brew tonics for the townsfolk. Perhaps she can even dare communication with father once the child is old enough that the court will have forgotten about her.

That will come with time, though. As of now, she's a pregnant woman traipsing alone through the forest with few possessions and no way of defending herself. She knows she's in a fragile situation and that she needs to find a secure enough roof for her and the thing inside her.

She still has a hard time thinking of it as a tiny person, but she doesn't feel like clawing him out of herself anymore, even if the little monster won't let her eat at all. She finds herself being sick after almost every meal, knows that riding all day until she can barely keep her eyes open isn't really helping her weakened state, but she can't afford to stop now. She sleeps little and uncomfortably, finding solace in the depths of the woods during daylight if possible, fearing being found by men more than beasts. Her fire creating abilities are still shaky, but she figures she can conjure something fast and big enough to keep wolves and other predators away. She would rather not out herself as a barely efficient witch to any human, though.

On the dawn of the twelfth day of her escape, she feels confident enough to try her luck at a local tavern. She wants to know if there have been news of the disappearance of the queen, and her body could truly use warm food and a real bed to rest on. She's not used to the lack of luxury that this trip is forcing her into, and she feels sore in places of her body that she didn't even know existed before. A bath, too, may just bring her muscles back to life; she smells, too, and the heightened sense of smell that this pregnancy has gifted her with is making it unbearable.

The tavern she ends up choosing is far away enough from the main square of the town that she almost feels safe going in. It's late and the tavern is dark, barely lighted by haphazardly set candles here and there, but Regina covers herself with her hood anyway once she's left _Rocinante_ pasting outside. She keeps her eyes down and her posture hunched, making herself as small and unobtrusive as possible as she finds a table in the back corner of the main room. There's noise and clutter all around her, unfamiliar sounds to her ears used to the lilting voices of noblemen, and she hates how the harshest curse words that reach her ears make her flinch visibly. At least no one seems to be talking about a disappeared queen, and so she does her best to calm down, and orders herself some mead and stew, asking about a room for the night as well.

She eats slowly, carefully, breaking the soft meat before her with her hands. She's the hungriest that she ever remembers being, but she forces herself to slow down in the hopes that the meal settles down in her stomach better than the cold cuts she's been feeding herself with these past few days. She pats her lower belly, as if asking her little thing to let her keep one proper meal down.

She's nearly finished when a man approaches her table, sitting beside her, legs astride the bench and gaze fixed upon her. He's holding a mug before him and his smile is broad and knowing, a tease on thick lips. Regina doesn't inspect him properly, merely looking down and hoping that her clear disinterest will drive him away. It doesn't, and when a long silent moment has passed, the man interrupts the quietness with a loud, boisterous laugh. Regina doesn't know whether he's drunk or not, but the smell of alcohol on his breath is enough to make her feel sick, the disgust only intensifying when he leans closer to her. She keeps her gaze steady on her own hands and breathes softly. He doesn't seem to take a hint, though, and reaches up with rough fingers with the clear intention of removing her hood.

"Now let's see that pretty face," he mumbles, his words jumbled and rushed, but Regina bats his hand away with a sharp slap that takes the man by surprise. He makes a noise that probably means he's insulted, but he's slow enough that Regina manages to stand up and move away, quickly fighting her way through the throng of people and reaching the door.

Outside, she doesn't take even a moment to enjoy the fresh air, but rather goes to find _Rocinante_ and ride away, forgetting about thoughts of baths and beds and exchanging them for the secure blanket of a night in the forest. The man hasn't been deterred from his purposes, though, since Regina finds him standing next to her before she can mount _Rocinante_ , blocking her way out with a frame that's bigger than she has anticipated.

"That was rude, wench," he tells her, his broad shoulders drawn forward in a way that reads threat.

Regina says nothing, evaluating her options with quick moving eyes. She doesn't see a possible exit, and she doesn't know what this man can possibly want with her, but surely nothing good. It may be her filled up purse or it may just be her body, but she's not willing to give any away, so she just waits to see what he does, hoping that he will somehow find it in him to leave her alone. He doesn't, but rather steps closer to her, his shaggy blonde hair and rugged beard giving him a falsely pleasant look, his eyes bright with a shine of having drunk too much. Before Regina can utter a protest, he reaches forward for her and grasps her wrist, pulling her forward and away from _Rocinante_ with one single sharp tug. He's far too strong for her to fight, but she struggles anyway, doing her best at pulling away. That only gets him to guffaw repulsively.

"Let me go, you oaf!" Regina demands with her most imperious tone, even if she feels like nothing but a scared child in the eyes of this monster of a man.

"Is that a way to treat a friend? You'll make me think you don't like me."

"Let go, I said!"

"Now that's enough of that."

Regina watches him reach forward and for her other wrist as if in slow motion. She has no doubts of his intentions, but she won't let this oafish, dumb man stop her escape, or treat her untowardly, not after everything she's survived thus far. Unaware of where her own thoughts are taking her, she focuses with sharp attention and shoves her hand forward until it meets the hard planes of a well-defined chest, and then keeps pushing forward, feeling flesh part around her wrist until her hand is tightly wrapped around the warm and pounding heart of her attacker. She hears him gasp and pulls, smirks up at him when he sees his own palpitating bright heart nestled in her tiny palm. The heart barely shines, dark swirls covering most of the red brightness of it, and Regina stares fascinated at it before she squeezes it. The man sags against her, dropping her trapped wrist and falling to his knees before her as she clutches it harder and harder.

"Look at you on your knees before me, peasant," she tells him, her smug smile wider the more the man struggles to breathe properly. His eyes are shiny with unshed tears now, and if he's hoping to get any kind of mercy with that, Regina doesn't care. She crushes the heart with satisfaction, opening her palm once it's gone so she can let the lingering dust slip through her fingers and fall on the dead body at her feet.

As she rides away from the tavern and the town, she realizes that she won't be regretting that death.

 

* * *

 

As time passes and Regina puts the palace behind her, she begins to feel more and more comfortable about her escapade. It's been almost four weeks now, and even if she's been trudging her way through unknown forests and sleeping on the hard and sometimes wet ground, she can't help but be relieved. She's strengthened by her own success, even if she's sore all over, both her hands and feet having suffered painful sores that had made her wish she'd taken some salves with her. She'd managed to concoct a calming liquid with some of the plants she'd found in the forest, but her wounds would just reopen over and over again. They're starting to grow hard and calloused, though, so she hopes pain won't be as terrible anymore.

The child seems to have settled better, though, and her stomach is thankful for whatever she provides. She's hungry all the time, actually, and finds herself craving the strangest of things.

"You're making me awfully peckish, _cielo,"_ she speaks out loud, her voice lingering in the air around her and her hand pressing softly against her lower belly.

She's resting for a while, lying down on the ground and using her cape and satchel as a makeshift pillow. She's familiar with this position by now, and also with the strange habit she's developed of speaking to the child as if it was already here. She's not even showing yet, but when she rests her hand on the occupied spot of her insides, she fancies that she can feel it under her skin, listening to her voice. She's more comfortable with the idea of being a mother now, feeling closer to the child the more distance she puts between herself and the palace. The life growing inside her feels hers now, as if it couldn't possibly belong in any way to the king.

She closes her eyes, breathing in the open air, and tries to relax her muscles as much as the solid ground beneath her allows her to. It's a little bit cold today, and Regina likes it better this way, since she gets awfully sweaty during her long rides, and the light breeze feels cleansing on her skin. She'd dreamed of open spaces often enough while resting in Daniel's arms, and she finds herself remembering all of those long lost dreams.

"We should move soon, _cielo,_ " she says. "I'll fall asleep otherwise."

"And we wouldn't want that now, would we, dearie?"

Regina opens her eyes and stands up in the same motion, her movement so fast that she stumbles under a sudden dizzy spell that forces her to steady herself by leaning against the trunk of the tree she'd been resting under. No dizziness would ever stop her from recognizing that voice, so she doesn't need to look to know the face that will be greeting her. She still does, and her eyes meet Rumpelstiltskin 's amused gaze with hatred etched in them.

"Rumpel," she hisses.

"Careful there, Your Majesty, you might upset your stomach jumping about like that," he tells her, all flamboyance and drama, hands twirling up in the air as he leans next to her on the tree. "And in your state, too; bun in the oven, right?"

Regina shakes herself from the impression of being found out by someone she'd honestly forgotten about in her desire for freedom, never mind that it's his lessons what have kept her out of trouble in her journey. She has no time for Rumpelstiltskin's games, and no desire to play them anymore, so she moves away from him and closer to _Rocinante,_ picking her cape and satchel from the ground and making herself ready to mount and ride away.

"Go away, Rumpel, I won't be explaining myself to you."

"Oh, dearie," he tells her, his ever-present giggle erupting from between his parted lips and crawling up her spine as if it were palpable fingers. "It's not me you should be worried about."

"What do you-"

But Regina doesn't get to finish her sentence, instead following Rumpelstiltskin's pointed finger with her eyes until she catches sight of five mounted soldiers, King Leopold's coat of arms proudly printed in their armor. Regina doesn't have a second to think when she realizes that she's been spotted even through the cover of the trees, the loud shout of _there she is!_ coming from their leader prompting her into impulsive action. She jumps atop _Rocinante,_ forever grateful that she kept riding all of these years and never forgot her lessons, and kicks his haunches so he runs as fast as he can.

Desperation follows her along with the king's knights, too many to outrun easily. She has a small advantage over them, though, and she's more agile in her riding leathers than they are in their clunky armor, so she tries to forget about her persecutors and merely keeps riding, fast and focused, eyes sharply set before her. She can't let them catch her, not her and her baby, not her and her future, not her and her dreams. She's lost so much already, and this time victory had seemed so very close, just a breath away, that she can't bear the thought of losing again. So she runs, runs and runs, thinking that she will make it after all.

There's a smile crossing her lips, wind fast and cold against her face, when she's brusquely stopped, pain exploding in her left shoulder, as if shards of glass were tearing through her skin. It's not glass, though, but an arrow that's wedged itself into her flesh. It's obvious then that the king just wants her returned but not necessarily unharmed, so even as she feels blood trickling down her arm, sticking to the leather of her garments and pain pooling down her arm until she can barely hold onto the reins, she keeps going, her heart set on her escape, necessary now more than ever.

A second arrow comes close but doesn't touch her, but it's enough to fright _Rocinante_ into stopping his movements, the sudden stop throwing Regina forward with a yelp, and then quickly backwards when yet another arrow has _Rocinante_ lifting his front legs up in the air. Regina holds on as best as she can, but her arm is numb from the pain and her thighs can't hold her through the sudden movement, which ends up propelling her towards the ground. Her back collides against the dirt with a resounding thud, quickly followed by her head. Her foot gets trapped in the stirrup, and her body gets dragged up and forward before _Rocinante_ finally stays still. Before she passes out, all Regina can think about is the blast of intolerable pain coming from her lower abdomen.

* * *

 

The world comes back into focus slowly, her senses coming back as if she’s climbing from under murky water, a light at the end and nothing but heavy liquid pulling her down. It takes her a minute to adjust to the light coming from outside, which feels too bright against her retinas even if it’s mostly grey and already giving way to the darkness of night. She feels groggy, unsteady, and sound reaches her as if everything was far away, except for her breathing, loud and pant-like against her ears. Her head is pounding, and she feels sick.

Her first attempt at moving proves fruitless, and her breathing only gets the more ragged when her limbs refuse to collaborate. She whimpers, the sound erupting from deep inside her chest and coming out filled with frustration. She keeps trying, and eventually her heavy arms move at her will and she’s pushing herself up and into a sitting position. There is a soft mattress under her, but she feels sore all over, and the moment she makes the biggest effort to straighten her back and sit, sharp pain stabs at her belly. She gasps, hands curling on fine, soft linens, and before her mind can register anything else father’s face comes into focus beside her.

“Slow, _cielo_ ,” he says, low and soothing.

Regina blinks at him, her voice catching on the word _daddy,_ leaving her mouth hanging open, lips parted and stupefied. Father’s looking at her with careful eyes, and his hands are hovering around her, as if he doesn’t know if he should touch her but he’s afraid she might collapse. She watches their movement with weighty lids that demand to be closed, but she fights the fogginess clouding her senses and chooses to focus her gaze on father’s still frame and his kind eyes. He looks as if he’s in pain.

“I’m so sorry, my little princess, so sorry.”

She whimpers, knowing what father is apologizing for even before her situation fully registers with her. She’s in the palace, lying on a soft bed, and daddy’s sorry. Daddy’s sorry and her lower belly is in pain, acute and dull now, but persistent anyway. Regina whimpers again, bringing a trembling hand up to her own mouth, curling it into a fist until she can bite into her own knuckles, distract herself with a different kind of hurt. She can’t stop her second hand from reaching down, though, finding its way under her thick gown and touching the skin of her belly, which she has become so familiar with. She doesn’t find smooth planes, her fingers bumping instead against the deformed grooves of an ugly open wound, probably tightly sewn by the expert hand of the Royal Doctor. She pushes in, feels her flesh complain at the abuse but keeps going until there’s blood on her fingers, and then seeping into her gown, the expanding red stain a mockery of her dying insides.

“ _Cielo, no hagas eso, esp–” **(2)**_

But pain claims her consciousness yet again, blackness a sweet reprieve for her sorrow.

 

* * *

 

Regina comes to and goes back into unconsciousness for a period of time that she can hardly guess at. Everything is hazy and she hurts in every possible way. She feels hot at times and then entirely too cold, and finds that her cumbersome limbs are clumsy and can’t move the covers accordingly. She sweats all over, the fabric of her gown sticking to her skin and her hair curling around her face, its length uncomfortable and unmanageable. She hears sounds, thinks that it’s her whimpers, fancies that she can hear herself shout.

She regains full consciousness on a sunny afternoon, eight days after she first woke up, and the Royal Doctor is immediately ushered into the room so that he can check on her, not allowing her time to think. She feels numb enough that she appreciates the usual cold demeanor of the man, who informs her that she’s had a fever, but that her scar is mostly healed and she’s recuperating. He refers to her lost baby clinically, as something disposable and easily replaceable once she’s up and running again. She tries to glare, maybe yell at the man, but she’s so very exhausted. There’s a vast expanse of nothingness inside her, her chest and belly and heart empty of anything honest and palpable, and upsetting the doctor won’t do her any good.

Once the doctor leaves her, he’s quickly replaced by the figure of her husband. King Leopold sends the maids away, so that there’s nothing but empty air between them, and Regina doesn’t know what she’s supposed to say to this man, so she says nothing. As it turns out, the king seems gobsmacked himself, and so he paces before her, his steps heavy and seeming to pound against Regina’s skull. Regina doesn’t look at his face, afraid that his idiotic little eyes will prompt her into doing something stupid like crushing his useless heart, so her eyes focus on his limbs, the curve of saggy arms under his thin white shirt. He has one hand tightly wrapped into the other one, fingers twisting impossibly, rubbing patterns up and down his wrist. His fingers curl at times, unbidden, forming a fist full of bony knuckles.

Regina moves, removing the covers from her body and turning so that she can lower her legs into the floor. Her feet land onto the flat cold surface and she appreciates the chill that seeps into her skin. She feels woozy from lying down for so long, but at least doesn’t think that she will collapse back down. When she removes her gaze from her own naked feet and looks up, King Leopold is right before her, eyes hard and reproving, accusing her of the worst of crimes. It was his knight’s arrows that threw her from the horse, but this man will never learn to place guilt over his own shoulders, not when it’s easier to consider her wicked and unnatural. She wants to laugh in his face, for she has never detested him more than at this moment. He says nothing, but his hands still tremble with barely contained rage, and so Regina does what she does best, and goads him, provokes him into madness.

“Just do what you want to do, Leopold,” she tells him, enunciating his name loud and clear, using it for the first time just so it packs a bigger punch to his ego. “You have wanted to use that shaking hand on me from the first night we spent together, dear, so stop pretending that you’re better than this and just do it.”

Raging, nose flaring, he seethes, “That was my child you killed.”

“It was _my_ child,” she hisses back.

Finally, after all this time, her words prod the king into action, the back of his hand connecting with her cheek, knuckles first. The clean cut sapphire of one of his gaudy rings catches on her skin, carving a long, thin incision on the apple of her cheek, ending close to the corner of her mouth. The stinging pain acts as a focal point for Regina’s rage, and when a drop of her own blood reaches her lips, she licks at it. It tastes metallic and tangy, just like the aftertaste mother’s magic used to leave at the back of her tongue, and it makes her mouth shape itself into an easy smirk. Leopold’s looking at her, horrified, if by his own actions or her demeanor she can’t tell. It hardly matters, though, not when she’s feeling a sort of breeze crawling up her spine, uncoiling something unknown at the back of her head. It’s her own magic, usually diffuse and hard to reach, and now suddenly spilling all over her body, loosening up her limbs and touching the tips of her fingers, the feeling of it playful and controlled. She reaches into it, and moving her palms up, pushes forward until the king is tumbling backwards, his heavy body crashing against the nearest wall.

King Leopold’s expression turns from horrified to stupefied in a second, but Regina doesn’t relent, instead standing up on legs that feel like water, strong and steady, trickling their way to where the king is prone on the floor. The smell of her own magic wafts up into her nose, the scent of cinnamon and apples clouding her senses, and a thin sheen of purple smoke covers her hands.

“You will never touch me again,” she says, eyes dark and steady on Leopold’s, her voice deeper than she’s ever heard it, coming from low inside her chest, the space that she’d thought empty and that’s now filled up to the brim with power. “You will feel disgust at the mere idea of laying a hand on me in any way; you won’t know why, but your stomach will roll if you even look at me for too long, and you will feel nothing but revulsion at your instincts to touch this body that doesn’t belong to you.” She breathes in, sharp but slow, and finally hisses, “Now go away, and forget that this ever happened.”

With nothing but satisfaction inside her, Regina watches the king scramble to his feet and run away from her bedchambers, eyes full of confusion, as if hypnotized. Once he’s gone, Regina laughs, something close to a cackle, as she fists her hands at her sides, feeling the exploding power inside her subdue and come down until it's nothing but a comfortable hum at the back of her head.

She’s coming down from her high slowly, opening and closing her eyes, when all of her strength plummets to the floor. Standing right before her, at least ten steps away, is father, eyes wary and posture hunched, small. Regina doesn’t even have to wonder if he’s seen everything, judging that he clearly has by the fear etched in his features, the kind of fear that Regina has only ever spied in him when facing mother. And of course she wouldn’t notice him, not with how good father’s gotten at hiding himself in the shadows. She’s momentarily stunned, and she impulsively parts worried lips and reaches out a hand that’s left lingering in the air when father takes a hasty step back.

“Daddy, I…”

“ _Cielo, no importa, no pasa nada, yo…”_ And father’s tone is rushed, his words thoughtless in that way they get when he doesn’t really know what to say. **(3)**

Regina stares, and as the moment stretches between them, she realizes that she’s angry. Her fisted hands are quivering by her sides, and all of her strength is leaving her, making her body want to give up and crumple to the floor. She’s tired, tired of everything, and father’s looking at her as if she’s a monster.

“Get out, daddy,” she snaps.

“Regina, _cielo…”_

“Just get out! _Por favor, papi, vete… sal de aquí.” **(4)**_

He does, of course he does; never one to put up a fight, her father. How angry she is, how she hates that she sees the king in father’s figure, a weak man that has never done anything for her. Father loves her, so very deeply, but as many times as he’s sneaked into her rooms to offer her a treat or a soft and familiar caress, he’s nothing but comfort in the darkness. Father’s never stood up for her, has never truly protected her from the hurt that has plagued her all her life, and for all that she resents him, she can’t bear the idea of him when the world is destroying itself around her yet again.

She lets out a sob once she’s left alone again, her throat clogging with emotion over the innocence lost, and feels her body give up on her, the soreness that her magic had made her forget momentarily now coming back in spasms filled with pain. Her legs feel wobbly, and they shake under her and begin to take her down. Sure that she will collapse on the floor, she lets out a surprised gasp when a pair of arms catch her weight, supporting her easily. There, right beside her and hoisting her up is none other than Rumpelstiltskin, his grip stronger than his lithe body would suggest once he has her in his arms, bridal style. Any other day Regina would have fought the intimate touch, but she’s drained of all of her energies, so she allows herself the weakness of curling her hands on the leathery fabric covering Rumpelstiltskin’s shoulders, her fingers catching on a few locks of his absurd hair.

He leaves her on the bed, his movements as careful as she’s ever known them to be, and when she looks up at him he’s standing with something of a pensive look, genuine in its confusion.

“I will say, dearie,” he tells her, voice low and surprisingly devoid of his usual dramatics, “that was quite… unexpected.” At this he giggles, recuperating a little of his usual demeanor with a smile that’s half mocking and half fond. “How refreshing.”

Regina just stares at him, letting the moment stretch between them. It may just be the first time that the little imp has given her something close to a compliment. With a smile and gathering her last bit of strength, she straightens her posture on the bed, raises her chin up. “We will continue with lessons tomorrow,” she intones, amused demand hidden in her words.

Smiling, and pointing a golden tipped finger at her, Rumpelstiltskin confirms, “Tomorrow.” Then, he leaves in a cloud of purple smoke.

Once alone, Regina sags, giving into her body’s request for rest. She feels sweaty and a little dirty, so she removes her sleeping gown with tired arms and lays down naked under the covers, feeling the soft linens slide over her skin in a way that she finds calming. She rests her hand on her belly, a healing scar now forever etched on her skin, a reminder of yet another loss. Everything feels wrong, lopsided and destroyed, so she will do what she’s learned to do by now: construct again, reshape the world around her to fit her new state of mind. She’s just symbolically chosen her magical fake father over her real one, so she knows things are going to take a whole new turn.

As she closes her eyes, thoughts of change swirling inside her, her stomach grumbles. She’s suddenly hungry, just not particularly sure for what. With a smile, she conjures an apple right from her tree and into her hand, touches the shiny red skin covered by a thin sheen of dew. She bites into it, the crunchy sound of her teeth tearing into its hard flesh filling her with elation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) It's like a little piece of home, daddy.
> 
> (2) Cielo, don't do that, wai-
> 
> (3) Cielo, it doesn't matter, it's fine, I...
> 
> (4) Please, daddy, go away... get out of here.
> 
> \-------
> 
> Ok, so this thing has taken over my life, but thank you all so much for the wonderful response to the first part. :)
> 
> Also, I'm sorry about the bunny. Except not really because bunnies are horrible creatures.


	3. Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW1: Implied eating disorder.
> 
> TW2: Mentions of past marital rape and past emotional abuse.
> 
> TW3: Mentions of past miscarriage.
> 
> TW4: A short instance os sexual assault.
> 
> TW5: Also, the farther this goes the more it deals with Regina's Evil Queen tendencies, so canon compliant type of violence.
> 
> -
> 
> AN1: Graphic Dragon Queen follows.
> 
> AN2: Translations in the notes at the end :)
> 
> AN3: Also, ok, so I've been desperately trying to work out a timeline that is canonically correct for this, and I've tried very hard to get most of my facts straight but _Once_ is inconsistent as hell (like guys, I constructed charts and Excel sheets, and I still can't wrap my head around certain things). Any case, the timeline and age range I'm working with for this fic is as follows, in case you're interested:
> 
> 1\. I figured Regina marries Leopold at 18, when Snow is already 11 (she's 10 in _The Stable Boy_ but I assume some time must pass between the proposal and the wedding), making them have an age difference of 7 years.
> 
> 2\. Regina remains married to Leopold for 10 years, making her 28 by the time of his death, and Snow 21.
> 
> 3\. From that point on to Snow marrying Charming I set a frame of 6 years. The show gives the impression that this isn't such a long time, but the Snow that runs from the palace in _The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter_ is coded as quite young (seriously, check out the rosy cheeks make-up on Ginnifer), and there's a lot to cover during those years. Snow must live with Red for a while, meet/fall in love with Charming and everything that follows, eat the apple, get TLK, fight a civil war against George and Regina, win said war and then get married. Also, I assume this period needs to last several years for Regina to become the legendary Evil Queen.
> 
> 4\. Anyway, a year later more or less, the curse is cast, making the Snow and Regina trapped in time 28 and 35 respectively, mostly because it's weird for me if cursed Snow is younger that Emma. (Also, I code Charming as a couple of years older than Snow).
> 
> So that's it, that's the day's rambling. Clearly, I am thinking about this more than the creators. This is a problem.

Regina is locked up in her bedchambers for three months by orders of the king, concern for her health being the excuse uttered by the doctor on his daily visits. Regina sneers as he says these words to her, letting him know just how little they’re fooling her with their so called worry, how easily she can tell that the king wishes to punish her by reducing her world to four walls and a balcony that she’s advised not to step into for too long a time. She would throw a tantrum, if only to upset the king’s fragile character, but she’s secretly glad that she has some time to herself, to regroup and put herself back together away from the pressure of the court. She can only guess at the gossip that’s milling about the palace; she will have to take care of that once she’s left to roam free again, but for now, she can forget about those kinds of matters.

King Leopold only allows visits from the Royal Doctor and from lady’s maids he handpicks and changes intermittently, as if he’s afraid she may struck some kind of complicity or friendship with one of the servants, that she may somehow find some comfort in the consistency of a known face. Father is allowed near her as well, but after he saw her perform magic he’s shier around her, afraid and small in that way that reminds Regina of their days back at the manor, where mother’s hand had ruled their lives. Regina hates it, and even hates him a little for it, for his lack of faith in her. It’s an uncomfortable sort of feeling, jarring in a way that upsets her. She’s gotten used to despising the people that surround her, has made herself comfortable around vapid personalities that she secretly abhors, but having negative feelings towards her father is a completely different matter. She doesn’t have the strength to reassure him, not right now, and she wishes he was strong enough for both of them for the time being.

Regina’s imprisonment, however humiliating and infuriating, is not particularly harsh for her. One would think that a royal figure being held hostage within her own rooms would be a terrible fate, but then not many royals have grown up under Cora’s unwavering and punishing hand. Regina’s bedchambers are large and filled with light, and the king isn’t villainous enough to try and starve her out, so there are three meals a day for her, plentiful if boring. Compared to dark cellars and foodless days, this whole ordeal is almost pleasant. Despite all that, perhaps the king isn’t as foolish as she had thought, since he has forbidden any spicy food to be brought up to her, once again using her health as an explanation. All her table offers is barely cooked vegetables and tasteless porridges, which the Royal Doctor claims are restorative and energetic. Still, Regina eats what they give her, not even attempting to conjure up something else. She’s once again feeling as if eating is a chore, rather than an unbidden pleasure, and misses the new hunger that her little thing had brought to her.

She does her best at not thinking about what happened, but with the constant visits of the doctor it is hard not to do so. Even if he were to stay away, she’s constantly reminded of the havoc that’s been wrecked upon her body. For days after she finally regains full consciousness and manages to walk around a bit, she bleeds a pungent, dark and dense sort of blood that feels to her as if it’s so much more than that, her body cramping up and stabbing her with pain worse than during her usual periods. It’s fitting, almost, her body punishing her for failing to take care of her baby, but she wishes for a reprieve that only comes after days of stained linens and painful awakenings. Even without the pain, her scars remain, a thick white line low on her belly, almost smooth by now, an empty desert of pain beneath it, and a messy and tortured pink skinned blot up on her shoulder where the knight’s arrow had pierced her, angry and careless. She pointedly doesn’t look at herself in the mirror, trying to escape the physical signs of her loss as best as she can.

She doesn’t cry, not for a long time, stuffing her grief up inside her and filling the ever-expanding void inside her chest with anger that she can tap into, anger that she can reach easily and use as a shield against the world around her. If the all encompassing feeling of it leaves her breathless she only smiles, somehow preferring the burn of fury to the numbness of painful loss.

Rumpelstiltskin is more than happy to oblige her and use the anger that she’s offering in his training of her abilities. He becomes her most secret confessor during this time, ugly giggles and dramatics now easily ignored as Regina focuses her energies on her magic, on the uncoiling of that comforting hum at the back of her head that now unravels more easily than ever at her every command. The little imp has never been happier by her progress, but he’s still hard on her, cruel in his remarks and tough in his teachings. Regina finds herself appreciating his unchanged demeanor. She would hate for him to treat her as something fragile, or to feel as if she owes him something for being soft on her. Never more than now has she needed his oppressive tendencies to take over her life.

It’s a little over a month into her confinement when she receives a secret and forbidden visit to her bedchambers. When the door creaks open in the middle of the night, the grey moonlight filtering into the room and giving it a pale hue, Regina immediately thinks it will be father. She’s glad for a second, thinking that if father is feeling confident enough to treat her to one of their midnight visits, then perhaps they can go back to the way they were, but her giddiness dies soon enough when it’s Snow that walks into her chambers, feet light and swooshing dress the only sounds accompanying her as she makes her way to Regina’s bed.

“Oh Regina, you’re awake,” she says, whisper soft.

Regina has to stop herself from snorting; what was the child expecting? That she would sleep over the creaking sounds of her door? Still, she says nothing, and merely blinks at her unwanted visitor sleepily. The truth is she hasn’t thought of Snow at all during this whole ordeal, and her appearance makes her feel both exposed and vulnerable. She finds herself bringing her covers closer to her, all the way under her armpits as she sits up on the bed and plasters her back to the headboard, getting as far away as she can from the princess. Snow doesn’t seem to sense her discomfort, and reaches out with a pale hand that she rests over the bedspread, Regina’s leg right under it. Regina looks at it, long and beautiful fingers offering consolation, but doesn’t take it.

“Father said you were sick, and that I wasn’t to disturb you,” Snow explains. “I just so wanted to see you, Regina.” Snow’s lips twist into something disagreeable, so used to getting her way that having a direct order contradicting her wishes makes her feel utmost discontent.

Regina thinks King Leopold may have thought that he was punishing her by keeping Snow away, but he’s actually been doing her a favor. The princess, now looking at her expectantly, is making her feel all sorts of discomfited. She wonders at what it is that Snow could possibly want from her now, if she hopes to be used as a shoulder to lean on, or is she’s merely curious, but Regina has never before wanted her to go away as much as she does at this instant. She feels her hand curl in on itself, fingers taut, as if wanting to control every terrible instinct that Snow is evoking in her right now. There’s a vast expanse of nothing inside her belly, a child that was never to be, and her forced step-daughter is the last person she wants to face with this emptiness within her. Why should the princess get to live, after all, when everything that is Regina’s by choice dies?

“How are you feeling, Regina?” Snow asks again, prodding at her still frame with words that are getting higher by the second, as if now that she’s inside her room there’s no need to keep her voice down.

Regina, swallowing a lump of emotion that has lodged itself into her throat, hard as stones, croaks an unsure, “Snow, dear, I am extremely tired.”

Snow looks at her with stubborn determination set in the frown between her eyes, clearly bothered by Regina’s lack of enthusiasm at her appearance. The princess wants her transgression to be celebrated, but Regina doesn’t have her game face on, and she’s too tired to give Snow what she needs. She hasn’t faced the court or anyone of importance in a long while, and she’s certainly not ready to deal with Snow’s demanding demeanor, not when all she has is anger to run away from her heartache. Just when Regina thinks that Snow is going to give up, she does the exact opposite, jumping up and fully into Regina’s bed, a small happy smile adorning her pretty features. She’s grown taller than Regina thought possible, and suddenly she looks like a looming presence on her bed, intruding even when her disposition is so sickeningly sweet.

“You get some rest, Regina, I’ll be right here,” Snow commands, moving about until she’s lying down next to Regina, long limbed frame commandeering one side of the bed easily.

Regina bites at her lip, physically stopping herself from snapping at the princess beside her, no longer a child but clearly not ridden of her most infantile instincts. She wants to kick her out, make her go away and leave her alone with her own thoughts and feelings, but instead she just lays down herself, curling into her own frame and with her back to Snow, which seems to give the princess the excuse to thread her fingers through Regina’s hair. Her touch is soft, but Regina cringes at it. It’s unwanted and unasked for, and of course Regina’s life is enough of a cosmic joke that just when she’s managed to kick the father from her bed, the daughter would come to claim the empty, unoffered space. Regina wants to scream, and she finds herself with her hand fisted and her knuckles firmly planted between her teeth, enduring her harshest bite. If she doesn’t focus on her self-inflicted pain, she may just snap and do something insane like turn murderous hands on the princess behind her.

“I have missed you so, Regina,” Snow says behind her, her tone wistful and soft again, a whisper against the back of Regina’s neck. She moves closer, resting her palm on Regina’s back, under her shoulder blade, right where she can feel her breathing expanding and contracting her torso, and Regina notices their breathing merging into a single rhythm, coming together as if they’re one single person. Snow must find it soothing, as she continues her quiet confession with, “I miss our walks and our lessons, the tutors father has set for me are _so_ boring… and you weren’t there for my birthday.”

Still, Regina says nothing, instead closing her eyes as tight as she possibly can, as if she could conjure up sleep just by wishing really hard. She knows better by now, though, knows that wishing accomplishes nothing and that only her own hard work gets her anything at all, but there’s nothing she can do to get Snow White out of her bedchambers that won’t leave the princess feeling rejected. Snow doesn’t talk anymore though, perhaps thinking Regina asleep, and for that Regina is thankful. She has no idea what she would do if Snow would keep talking about her own sadness over Regina’s absence; Regina has truly made herself into her favorite toy, and if Snow’s presence wasn’t so discordant for her now, she may just congratulate herself on a game well played. As it is, she just needs a little peace, but that night, with Snow breathing softly behind her, it evades her.

Snow insists in her endeavors, popping up whenever she has a chance, which happens to be almost every day at the oddest of hours. Sometimes is at lunch time, when Regina hates that Snow watches her eat while remaining still, other times it’s while Regina is in the middle of a magical lesson, when it forces Rumpelstiltskin to disappear in a quick puff of smoke, but most times it is in the middle of the night, when Regina forces herself to feign sleep just so her hands won’t be tempted to slip around Snow’s thin neck and squeeze.

In a desperate attempt to recover her solitude, Regina asks her ever shifting lady’s maids to stop the princess’ advances, claiming that she doesn’t wish for her to get in trouble for ignoring the king’s orders. No one in this palace is on her side, though, and no one dares stop Snow from invading her room whenever she pleases. King Leopold is clearly too much of a fool to know that his daughter is being untrue in her promises to him, and so it is Regina that is made to deal with the consequences of Snow’s capriciousness.

One late afternoon finds them sitting together on Regina’s bed, Snow’s hands softly combing and braiding Regina’s hair. From the outside, Regina guesses they make quite the sweet picture, Snow’s skillful hands soft as she combs through Regina’s strands, and Regina with her head bent low, as if relishing the sisterly caress. Snow has taken to comforting her through these sorts of touches, and unwillingly, Regina finds them soothing. There’s something unequivocally familiar in them, and Regina hasn’t been touched lovingly in so long that she can’t help herself from relaxing into Snow’s delicate strokes. It’s confusing for her, seeing as she unconsciously tenses whenever Snow gets close, her hands twisting angrily at the girl’s obliviousness and intrusiveness. Her back is always ramrod straight when Snow’s in the room, but something in the touch of her hands to her hair makes Regina unravel, find comfort where her every instinct tells her that there’s nothing but further torment.

“I do so wish that you’ll recover soon,” Snow is telling her. “Then we can go back to our lessons and to riding together; don’t you miss it?” Snow wonders, continuing her speech immediately without leaving a single breath for Regina to possibly utter an answer. “Father has promised me a new steed this year; _Winter Rose_ is getting old, but I will miss her, isn’t she the most wonderful horse? Of course, as I grow older I shall need – Regina, are you even listening?”

Snapping out of her own mind at hearing her name, Regina waves a dismissive hand that she makes sure Snow can see. She has years of experience now listening to Snow’s prattle, and is an expert at catching most of her speech without paying any real attention. “Yes, yes, dear, of course; horses, your father, do tell me more.”

Behind her, Snow snorts, giggling then a little as she moves about until she’s besides Regina and looking at her face. Her movement makes the bed bounce, and Regina can’t help but scowl at the disturbance.

“You’re so distracted,” Snow accuses, laying carelessly on the bed, her hair and dress falling around her in a disorderly fashion. If Regina hadn’t seen her be the most proper lady when in the presence of members of the court, she would think her completely unfit for her role as princess and heir to the throne.

“Excuse me, dear,” she replies, voice cold and eyes settled low on her own hands. She knows she’s being mostly short with Snow these days, but letting her talk has usually worked quite well, and Regina finds that the least she interacts with her, the easier it is for her to ignore her worst instincts.

Waving a dismissive hand before her, as if Regina’s distractedness is of no importance, Snow wonders, “When will you be leaving your chambers, Regina? It’s been months, and you seem better.”

Regina feels like very unkindly referring Snow to her father, Regina’s jailor, and the owner of the answer to that question, but despite everything, Regina still knows how to keep her composure. Her masks and walls are working their way back around her, so she very easily finds herself smiling a little sadly and sighing as she answers, “As soon as the doctor deems it appropriate.” Then, as if resigned, “I do hope it’s sooner rather than later; I’m feeling quite alright, and I do miss our riding lessons.”

She smiles wistfully, and spies the ease with which Snow’s features take on a determined and stubborn expression. She may just ask her father for Regina’s freedom, and as much as Regina hates owing her anything, she’s not above using her influence over the princess in certain matters. Truth be told, Regina had welcomed her solitude and confinement to a certain extent, but her bedchambers are starting to feel stifling, even when spacious and full of light. She’s entirely too bored, even when she has Rumpelstiltskin giving her lessons and leaving books behind for her to keep up her magical studies, and she’s starting to feel like a bit of a caged animal. Just yesterday, she’d thrown a tray full of bland food against the wall in a fit of rage, and then had berated herself for her loss of temper. It’s definitely time for her to return to her queenly life, and Snow is her best chance for a quick recovery.

Silence lingers between them for a while, Snow more than happy to play with the soft covers of Regina’s bed as she rearranges herself to lie down on her stomach, her face propped on the palms of her hands. She makes the perfect picture of an innocent princess, cheeks rosy even though her skin is fair, lips full and pink, and long, black hair framing beautiful and round features. It seems to Regina that she’s ripe for the taking, the perfect fantasy for a king or a prince that desires virtue and beauty, that wishes to turn it into womanly wiles. Regina wonders, for a second, whether she ever formed a picture quite as perfect as Snow, or if all she ever evoked was harsh and strange allure surrounded by permanent sadness.

Shrugging her thoughts away, but feeling suddenly defeated, she breaks the silence to request, “Won’t you allow me some time alone now, my dear Snow? I may fall asleep on you otherwise, and any case, you know you shouldn’t be here when your father has instructed otherwise.”

Snow doesn’t leave immediately, but rather assures Regina that father is being overprotective of her and that she doesn’t mind lingering until sleep claims Regina. It is nearly impossible to get the child to do as she’s told, after all, so Regina resigns to her fate with a quiet little sigh and does her best at pretending to fall asleep, letting her breathing be steady and strong, and her limbs relaxed but still. Snow must see over her trick, or perhaps must think her trying to gain sleep when none will come, but she sits up on the bed and reaches out for Regina’s hand, threading their fingers together and squeezing softly, as if reassuring Regina of her presence. Regina has half a mind to ignite fire in her palm and burn Snow’s thin fingers to a crisp.

“Regina…” Snow says finally, her tone lingering and somewhat curious.

Her speech reveals nothing more, though, so Regina just gives up and opens her eyes owlishly, blinking up at Snow and wondering, “Yes, dear, _what_ is it?”

Snow bites her lip, unsure, and that immediately perks Regina’s interest. She’s never known the child to filter any of her speech, or to feel self-conscious about asking something. Whatever it is that is on her mind, it must be at least amusing.

“There have been some… rumors going through the palace.”

Regina rolls her eyes, suppressing a snort; she can just guess at which kind of rumors have been spread about her and her mysterious absence. “Do tell, Snow, and don’t be coy; I won’t be surprised by anything this court has to say about me or my behavior.”

“Well, it’s…” Snow shrugs, her fingers moving uncomfortably against Regina’s own hand, and gods, but even just how distressed she is makes Regina feel delighted. “They’re saying that you… that you have a secret lover! And that father is only keeping you here as punishment.”

Regina laughs, and it’s easy and carefree. It seems to her that the court is anxious to assign her secret lovers, when all she has is a secret dark arts teacher and an inescapable emptiness inside her that no man could hope to fill. Her laugh eases Snow’s suddenly serious demeanor, and Regina watches as her shoulders sag forward in her relief and the blush that had tainted her cheeks at her admission begins to fade. There’s something sweet about Snow’s innocence that never fails to strike Regina as pungent and fake, for how could this girl be claimed virtuous when she has so much of Regina’s blood on her hands? Today though, in the face of the court’s absurd rumors, she finds it almost entertaining.

“Oh Snow, you’ll learn soon that courts thrive on gossip, particularly that which pertains kings and queens. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about such things, dear. These rumors will quiet down soon enough,” she reassures, even going as far as reaching out for a soft caress to Snow’s cheek, a gesture of affection that she’s perfected over the years and that she knows Snow craves. “Surely you don’t think me false in my love for your father,” she states, letting her lilting tone ask a question that expects nothing but an affirmative answer.

“Of course not, Regina! I would never believe that yo–”

“Then that’s all that matters to me, dear,” she says, a soft smile claiming her lips. “Now do run along, it’s getting late.”

Snow does listen this time, perhaps because the light is starting to wane outside, and she knows that the maids will be up shortly with Regina’s supper, and that she must take her own as well. She says her goodbyes with a dry but soft kiss to Regina’s cheek and then leaves the room in harried steps, her teenage limbs making her charmingly awkward.

Finally, Regina is left alone, resting against plushy pillows and wondering about her next steps. She will clearly have to do some damage control as soon as she’s out of this room. She can’t allow everyone around her to think her a heartless harlot with no respect for her king, but she won’t be seen as some kind of weak creature succumbing to sickness so easily either. She will have to weave her own story into the rumor mill, make sure that it’s her own invention what takes over the collective mind of this court that still so clearly belongs to King Leopold. That will be the first order of business, and then, she will have to start claiming her rightful place as queen, and making sure that everyone knows that perhaps the king isn’t the best choice when it comes to laying down their loyalties.

 

* * *

 

The first day out of her confinement, Regina walks around the palace with her head held high and her eyes searching, doing her best at evaluating the new situation she finds herself in. She’s chosen one of her softest dresses, light blue over a soft creamy blouse, sufficiently covered up that most of her figure is hidden under the fabric. She wears her hair down as well, hoping to project a young, careful and shy image, as if she’s truly nothing but a convalescing sweet queen glad to come back to court life. As unobtrusive as she’s made her image to be, she knows herself followed by curious looks, particularly since no one seems entirely too preoccupied with being subtle about them. She chooses to smile softly when she catches someone’s gaze, but remains quiet for most of the day, allowing everyone to speak around her so that she can gather what thoughts are the ones conquering the court. She hears whispers of secret lovers and unwanted children, and a particularly creative suggestion of being kidnapped by a jealous king from another land. All rumors but one seem harmless enough, and Regina already knows how to dismiss them, but she’s worried when she hears someone insinuating witchcraft and dark powers. She has to quench those ideas away as soon as possible.

In order to set the rumors at ease, she bets on the ever predictable Baroness Irene and her unquiet tongue. She summons the woman for a late supper after a few days of silently roaming the palace, and makes sure that they’re provided with sweet tea and those minty chocolate pastries that the woman loves so much. She sets them on the comfortable couches by the window of one of the communal chambers of the palace, the one where she usually holds her meetings with members of the court, and makes sure that there’s no one else around for the occasion. She even asks the baroness to come alone, rather than bring along whatever new protégé she’s dragging around these days, hoping to create an air of intimacy with the woman.

They exchange pleasantries, but soon enough Regina broaches the subject of the gossip surrounding her figure, and the baroness is more than happy to oblige her and share every last juicy bit. Regina’s pleasantly surprised to know that, while the court is happy to talk about her, no one seems entirely ready to fully believe words that speak badly of her. No one seems to know her enough to judge her character in such matters, but everyone is more than happy to think her young, quiet and entirely too loving towards her step-daughter to be anything but virtuous.

“Perhaps, my beautiful darling, you could assuage all of our minds by sharing the truth,” the baroness says with finality, one thick fingered hand busy making crumbs out of a perfectly fine pastry. Regina feigns doubt, teeth digging sideways into her lower lip and eyes shifty, and that prompts the baroness to reach out and hold her wrist, forgotten pastry now probably getting lost somewhere in the big cushions of the couch. “Surely you know I would never think ill of you, Your Majesty.”

Regina would smile at how easy playing this game with the baroness is, but she doesn’t want to break her façade. Instead, she looks about herself as if nervously ascertaining that they’re alone, and reaches for the woman’s plump hands, as if in need of reassurance. She finds them powdery but surprisingly pleasant, her touch just the right kind of gentle.

“I feel that I mustn’t, baroness,” she whispers, false fear and inexperienced childishness written all over her features.

“Oh you beautiful child,” the baroness chides, as if scolding her for being distrustful. She squeezes Regina’s hands, and steadily says, “You can trust me.”

“You _are_ my greatest confidante, baroness, surely you know that,” Regina tells her, easily finding the woman’s ego and pressing her words into it. The woman is leaning towards her now, eager to obtain Regina’s secret confession, and Regina, blinking false tears away from her eyes, is more than happy to oblige with her fabricated story. “The truth is there _was_ a gentleman–”

“Oh?”

“Someone of no importance; I barely looked at him twice! But His Majesty is so protective of my virtue and was so afraid that someone may have stolen my affections away that he chose to keep me away from court all this time.”

“Oh my dear child.”

Regina closes her eyes briefly, giving way to her fake grief with gusto, relishing the play she’s putting on for this inconsequential woman, satisfied by how easily she can pull the strings. Surely no one will doubt a tale of woeful love for a king that has barely been seen next to his young wife, not when Regina has shown sadness and pride as her personal shields. Inspired by her own tale, she drops to the floor, knees first, and then swiftly hides her face in the baroness’ lap, pressing her face to the soft fabrics of her ghastly dress. She needs this woman to spread the rumors that she’s being fed, and she wants her story to be one of a trapped and anguished young queen. She wants the court to pity her fate and to look at King Leopold under a different light, to make him the villain in this story and her the virtuous martyr.

“How could he ever think that I would ever betray him?” Regina continues, big eyes now facing the baroness from her place on the floor. “I do love him so, baroness, but he barely bestows his looks upon me; I believed he thought me beautiful but I must not be desirable enough for such a noble man.”

“Don’t be silly, my darling, you are as beautiful as the waning light of the evening,” the baroness assures her, carding her hands through her hair in a motherly gesture and making sure that Regina is resting comfortably on her lap. “Now rest, child, and let the baroness coddle you.”

Her tale of misfortune spoken, Regina’s not surprised when the whispers about her subside during the next few days. Baroness Irene works fast, and surely she’s taken great delight in spreading the story of the queen crumbling before her and crying about her gloomy fate. She can only imagine just what kind of exaggerations the baroness will have added in her gossiping, but she knows that she will come out as nothing but favorable with the way she insisted that the baroness was her truest and only friend and confidante in this fearful court.

Soon enough, Regina gets invited for tea and lunches by some of their visiting royals, and is even offered a lesson in embroidery by one of the eldest countess’ roaming the palace that fortnight. She has founded the whispers, and now there are shades of suspicion thrown Leopold’s way, both men and women wondering how the king can be so cruel to his young and gorgeous bride, who has such a sweet disposition and loves him so dearly.

As Regina’s life begins going back to the shape she’d gotten used to; riding and walking through the gardens, lessons with Snow and hours spent by her apple tree, tea and pastries while staying quiet so the nobles fill her ears with gossip, she knows she’s done well, and that it’s about time she started taking a more active role in this court that has decided to take her side, if only just this once.

 

* * *

 

A few weeks later, once Regina feels as if she’s regained her footing within the court, she decides that it is time to make some changes. This palace where she lives, ran and ruled by King Leopold, has been nothing but a prison, and so far, Regina has played her cards to her utmost benefit, but now she’s starting to realize that perhaps she hasn’t had as much vision as she thought. She’s carved herself a place in Snow’s heart and in the court’s collective mind, has bled for the reputation that she upholds, and has even allowed her father’s pride to slip through her fingers just to make her path easier to shoulder. Despite all that, and even when Regina has been steadily working on having King Leopold’s kind and affable character questioned, she’s very conscious that nothing and no one but _Rocinante,_ father and an apple tree belongs to her. She’s entering her fifth year of marriage, and it’s about time she has something more than a few memories stolen from her childhood to show of her time as queen.

As a first measure, Regina hires a personal guard. She handpicks six sturdy men from the closest town, their origins questionable and their intentions unclear, and fits them into heavy, black garb. She arms them and gives them the name Black Guard, making sure that they look as different as possible from King Leopold’s army. Leopold can’t force her to give up the idea, but he scolds her for her choice, claiming that she should have taken a few good men from his own guard if she wished for protection. Regina needs men that are her own, though, who have no loyalties to the king and who won’t inform him of her every move.

“But I know these men personally, Your Majesty,” she argues. “For example, Claude here,” and she points at the man behind her, “has a three year old son and a lovely wife back home. He’s been a farmer and has defended his lands many a time from ogres and thieves. I couldn’t possibly hope to get to know _your_ men, Leopold.”

Leopold flinches when she uses his name, and it makes Regina smirk. She has barely seen him since she placed her curse upon him, seeing as he’s indeed lost all interest in bedding her, and this newfound dynamic they have amuses her. He’s nervous around her, always shifting from foot to foot and avoiding her gaze, afraid and anxious, as if he can’t wait to leave the room. When Regina looks at him, so old, so foolish, she feels nothing but contempt, and thinks that there will never be punishment harsh enough for the many a time she has supported his weight above her and he has forced himself on her.

Regina gets her way, and so she begins to be seen constantly followed by a man in black. She organizes a fair and tight schedule for them, makes sure that they’re properly bathed and fed, hires a Sword Master to keep them properly trained and fit, and as she told Leopold, she gets to know them. She makes sure to know their names and their stories, assures them that their families' needs will always be provided for, and even dismisses whatever minor crimes they may have committed in the past. They’re _her_ men, her Black Guard, and with them at her sides, Regina begins to feel the exhilarant pull of being a true monarch.

Her wardrobe is also scrutinized and changed, Regina getting rid of dresses that make her look like a little girl. She’d been worried for a long time about looking too old in the eyes of the court, about having the expectations of motherhood become greater as people realized that she wasn’t actually a child anymore, so she had cleverly hidden herself behind common and light fabrics, as well as shapes that didn’t hug her body or show too much skin. It’s about time she stops being a child, though, so she has the tailor work with new fabrics and shapes, making sure that she has darker colors to choose from, tight corsets to frame her torso, snug pants that allow for movement and figure hugging dresses that draw attention to her curves. She stops wearing her hair down as well, putting it up in simple yet high hairdos, so her neck is beautifully exposed, elongating her figure, making her seem taller, in possession of whatever room she walks in.

With this new disposition, she begins choosing her outfits carefully, allowing for lighter and sweeter looking dresses during the day, or while she walks around the gardens with Snow, and outfitting herself in a tighter and darker fashion for the evenings, when she roams the palace with her chin held high and her eyes at half mast, silent yet confident. It makes people believe that she’s hiding something, that there’s unfathomable mysteries behind her posturing, and that she’s merely trying to survive a husband that won’t look at her. In a way, they’re right, just not in the fashion they think. Regina is not surviving being unloved, but merely covering herself with enough layers that they won’t suspect that her actual weapons are dark magic and a past full of blood.

For her twenty third birthday, Regina chooses to make a great entrance, and so she dresses herself in a midnight blue dress made of some kind of stretchy velvet that hugs her body nicely, heightening her shape in ways that she finds oddly pleasing. She’d had it made a long time ago, on a whim, and had never found the right occasion to wear it, but tonight, after a few expert touches from the seamstress and paired with high heeled boots that are cleverly hidden under the fabric of her skirt, her eyes and lips painted dark and her hair up in a twisted and big bun, it seems perfect to her. She’s staring at herself in the mirror when the maids enter her bedchambers with her dinner, father following closely behind.

“I won’t be having dinner tonight, thank you,” she intones. The maids, huffing and puffing at her lack of forewarning, step away from the room carrying their trays with them.

Father remains tough, and as quiet as he’s been around her lately, tonight he actually manages somewhat of a stern expression as he tells her, “ _Cielo,_ you should eat something.”

“I will eat with the court and my family tonight,” she intones, voicing her plan and trying not to physically cringe when referring to Snow and Leopold as _her family._ It seems like too much of a crime against herself when her father is standing before her.

Regina has never taken her suppers with the court, has never been truly invited. Then again, she has never been forbidden attendance either, and she can hardly be blamed for wanting a little attention on her birthday. She hopes to cause a bit of a stir, today of all days, when the palace is filled up to the brim and when she knows Leopold has chosen to have a big dinner in one of the biggest halls with just about everyone in the palace, rather than choosing a quiet meal with just a few of his subjects, as usual. The chance to bring a little more gossip to the table is certainly amusing, and knowing that she can lean on Snow’s presence while making the king quiver with discomfort makes her feel cruelly satisfied.

She barely spares a thought to all this, not when daddy is standing before her and looking as unsure as she remembers ever seeing him around her. She thinks of birthday balls back at the manor, of dancing around with him, no rhyme or reason to their movement, of sweet, honest laughter. Something painful clenches inside her chest, this distance that they have been keeping from each other suddenly heavy and burdening.

Not truly knowing what to say, Regina flattens her hands on her own hips, and makes as if to straighten invisible wrinkles from her dress. Then, hoping to make father lift his gaze up from the floor, she asks, “How do I look, daddy?”

It’s immediate, father’s eyes travelling up to her face as his lips take on a sweet smile. His usually smooth voice trembles when he says, “You always look beautiful, my little princess.”

It strikes a chord deep within Regina, and she feels her chest unravel and fill up with unbridled emotion. In three long steps she’s reached father and she has her arms around him, tight and secure, and her face hidden somewhere in the fabric of his jacket. He hugs her back, his embrace making her feel safe and small, even when it seems to her that father’s frame has grown narrower. She holds on, steadying herself against father’s body so as not to let a wave of emotion consume her, make her vulnerabilities conquer her and make her question her path.

It’s a while before either of them moves, but it’s father who breaks the standstill, mouthing in a near whisper, “Happy birthday, _cielo._ ”

Regina laughs, short and sharp, but mumbles a _thank you, daddy_ while still hidden within his embrace. She feels a little silly all of a sudden, surrounded in fabrics and paints and high heeled shoes as if that can somehow fix her, or maybe hide her away until she becomes exactly what she’s pretending to be. It lasts but a second though, because as much as she’s telling herself that this stunt is nothing but that, she feels strangely comfortable in her dress, as if she’s no longer the product of mother’s dreams, but her very own person, making her very own choices. With father’s arms around her, though, something inside her breaks, something clogged and nasty that has taken residence within her chest and that keeps tugging at her heartstrings, and making her want to cry. She refuses to give in, not tonight when she has a mission and a purpose, so she steps back from father just a little bit and leaves her hands resting on his shoulders, so that she can stay connected to him, but giving herself a little space as well.

“You should come with me,” Regina intones, thinking of walking hand in hand with her father into the hall and interrupting Leopold’s peaceful meal.

Father shakes his head, though, lowering his eyes yet again. “No, _cielo,_ it’s better that I don’t.”

And there it is again, that stab of bitterness claiming the empty spaces inside Regina, father’s refusal to take his rightful place making her furious. Why should father feel inferior to those insipid noblemen that plague their lives? They should kneel before him, praise him for his kindness and modesty. Father’s not proud, though, and Regina can’t force him to be.

“After dinner then, daddy, just you and me?” she requests. “We could have some chocolate,” she offers, wistful.

“Dark, of course,” he replies, something close to sass in his smile this time.

“The darkest.”

Regina walks about the palace with ease, one of her guards close behind her and her head held high. When she enters the dining hall, there is a pause filled by what sounds like a collective intake of breath. Regina can do nothing but smirk, pleased at the effect her entrance has caused, the ripples of putting on a little show crawling up her spine with a jolt of pleasure. It takes a moment, but soon the standstill is broken and there’s a flurry of movement around her, servants fixing a place for her next to Snow and the murmurs of the court filling up the silence. Regina catches the eyes of Baroness Irene as she makes her way to her seat, and lowers her head candidly in a silent salute when the woman offers her a proud smile.

King Leopold expresses his surprise with kind smiles and grandiose hand movements, and even goes as far as pushing her chair out for her before she sits down. Regina must admit that, while stupendously doltish, the king does know how to play his part properly for his court. He has been raised to be a king, after all, and it seems as if it’s easier for him to hide his own discomfort before the eyes of the many than when it’s just him and Regina in a silent room. Still, when Regina expresses false thankfulness by resting her fingers on his wrist, he can’t help but move swiftly away, as if burnt.

As always, it is Snow’s enthusiasm what allows the evening to continue with a shade a comfort falling back into the room. She receives Regina with genuine affection, telling her that she should most definitely join their meals more often, and that perhaps it should just be the three of them on occasion, as a family. Snow’s wish puts a sour expression on Leopold’s face, and Regina may just consider the request if only to torment him. As the night progresses, Regina finds herself eating a few morsels of some bland meat that seems to her overcooked and dry, and barely even looking at anything else. Her demeanor raises more than one eyebrow, but Regina can’t help but feel disgusted at the amount of food being consumed around her, at the amount of waste being produced by all of these overfed noblemen. It seems to her that they’re just eating what’s being put before them because they can, but not because they’re particularly enjoying it.

By the end of the evening, when it seems as if everyone is ready to depart the hall, the surprise about Regina’s appearance seems to have died down, and she finds herself absentmindedly munching on some grapes and looking about herself with curious eyes. She doesn’t know if people are pleased to see her or if she’s making them uncomfortable by changing their routines, and she honestly doesn’t know which option she prefers. Mother would of course choose fear over love, and Regina hasn’t fared terribly when following her advice, so perhaps discomfort is her best bet.

“Regina, I love your dress,” Snow tells her, drawing her attention to her and eliciting something close to a smile to surge on her otherwise bored expression. “You look lovely; doesn’t she look lovely, father?”

Leopold doesn’t look her way, busy as he is asking for a fourth refill of his glass of rum, but effortlessly and without allowing a tremble to enter his voice, he states, “The queen always looks lovely.”

Regina covers her mouth with the back of her hand to hide away an unstoppable snort and a deep-throated laugh. What a public animal Leopold is, fooling everyone with easy platitudes; no wonder she’s been thought cold and proud for so many years with this man spouting nonsense in everyone’s ears. Destroying his public persona might just be more gratifying than Regina had anticipated.

Waving a dismissive hand in the air and putting on her best smile, she says, “Thank you, Your Majesty, I was so hoping it would please you.”

Leopold does look at her then, eyes wide and full of misunderstanding. He truly can’t wrap his head around her, it seems, and Regina would have kept playing if not for Snow interrupting them by leaning her head on Regina’s shoulder and whispering, “It’s so good to have you here, truly. What made you come join us today?”

There’s genuine curiosity in Snow’s voice, and Regina, who hadn’t truly meant to disclose the information, finds herself answering with a truth hidden in kindness, even when for her it’s nothing but vicious. “Well, dear, it is my birthday today, and I wished to spend it with my family.”

“Your birthday!?” Snow exclaims, her voice high-pitched enough to draw attention from the people around them, and create a commotion. “Oh Regina, why didn’t you say so?”

Regina rolls her eyes at the stupidity of this girl. Snow doesn’t notice, busy as she is grasping Regina’s hands with her own, an emotion that Regina can’t quite identify crossing her eyes. Perhaps Snow has just realized that there have been no celebrations for Regina for years, no congratulations or gifts, no recognition of her as an actual person. It would be just like the little princess to be completely authentic in her obliviousness.

“Father, did you know?”

The king hesitates for a too long second, but seeing as he’s suddenly surrounded by curious looks, he reacts with what seems like years of public courtesy instilled in him, and with a bit of a sheepish smile, says, “But of course, my dear Snow, how could I ever forget?”

“Of course,” Snow replies, a kindly smile adorning her face as she looks up adoringly at her father.

King Leopold continues his charade, his tone magnanimous as he speaks now. “I was hoping to do this in private, alas… I would like to claim profound knowledge of the queen’s desires, but I’m afraid in this I’m just like every other man, completely useless.” And he looks around himself, asking with wondrous elegance, “Am I right fellows in thinking that the female mind is full of mysteries?”

There’s laughter, and oh but how easily he makes everything into a circus where he can be the ring leader. Regina would find it in herself to respect him for his easy maneuvering of the situation if only she didn’t despise everything that he is, everything that he represents, and everything that he has ever done to her.

Once again turning his eyes towards them and away from the overly curious crowd, he continues with, “Perhaps the queen will be kind enough to put me out of my misery and tell me what it is that she desires for a gift.”

Regina isn’t prepared for this turn of events, not having planned on revealing the importance of the date, and certainly not wanting anything that may come from the king’s hands and false generosity. Still, she knows an opportunity when it presents itself, and considers her options. The first time the king offered her a present, she asked for an apple tree because there was nothing that the man could give her that even approached her true desires. She’d wanted a shred of hope then, and now all her heart wants is freedom and revenge, the weight of this man’s heart on her hand, and the happiness of his daughter ruined; not much there that she can possibly ask for. Perhaps, though, there are shades of liberty that she can hope to obtain, so searching her brain for the right answer, she comes up with it quickly enough.

“A carriage,” she says, her tone firm and loud enough that she knows their audience will hear her. They’re putting on a show after all, and she wouldn’t want to disappoint by being too coy.

“Excuse me, my queen?”

“I would very much like a carriage for a gift,” she repeats. “Surely His Majesty knows the best of craftsmen, and will not be fooled into buying anything but the best of qualities; and perhaps four steeds will do nicely?” She fills her tone with wonder, as if she doesn’t truly know what she’s talking about, as if she’s not prompting the king into having the best possible carriage made for her so as to appease the court and its judgment. “Oh,” she finishes, “and I do find myself liking the color black as of late.”

The king laughs, big and boisterous, as if he’d been planning his response even before Regina spoke. He opens up his arms, and like that he looks like a kindly old man, someone ready to please, happy to make others happy.

“Your wish is my command, my dear queen,” he intones easily, and his statement is followed by applause, a big celebration of this event that no one knew about, that no one cared about until it was raised to attention.

Regina curls her hand into a fist and smiles through it all, accepting congratulations with a happy demeanor, as some ditzy girl that couldn’t be more ecstatic at having reclaimed the attention of her husband.

Later that night, after nibbling on a piece of dark chocolate for too long minutes and resting her head on father’s shoulder in an attempt at trying to find some sort of comfort, she finds herself emptying her stomach of whatever little dinner she’d managed to ingest. She feels sick, rotten to the core, trapped in a game that she never chose to play, but more ready than ever to rewrite all the rules, and get rid of all the players.

 

* * *

 

King Leopold delivers on his promise, and a month later, Regina is presented with a beautiful carriage pulled by four strong, black stallions in a big ceremony in front of the court. It seems as if Leopold has decided to only deal with her in public, accepting his fate but rejecting the idea of ever standing in a room alone with her. It’s a deal Regina can admit, although it won’t stop her from looking for harsher ways of punishing her undeserving husband. She can’t deny, though, that the king hasn’t spared any expense, and that the craft and delicacy of the offered gift pleases her to no end. It’s a carriage fit for a queen, black as she’d asked, and rare enough in its elegance that no one will doubt who is nestled inside it.

For her first trip, Regina takes it to the closest village to the palace, happy to notice that the king isn’t particularly enthused about having her leave the Royal State. It makes Regina realize that she has barely stepped out of the palace in the last few years, content with the fantastic gardens and the fields surrounding it, and too focused on her own anguish to give any thought to the outside, other than when Rumpelstiltskin chose to send her on a frustrating trek.

She enjoys the feeling of having her own ride, and delights herself with the thought of her own image, a beautiful carriage surrounded by the imposing men of her Black Guard. Her first visit isn’t just for fun, though, as she intends to find herself a lady’s maid, tired as she is of Leopold changing the women that tend to her, and wanting someone that belongs to her and her alone. She discovers with great joy that many a girl is anxious to fill the role, the position of waiting on the queen certainly appealing for both its reputation and the money it will bring to whoever fills it. Regina doesn’t want a girl, though, doesn’t need a friend or a gossip, but a quiet and mindful soul that won’t reveal her secrets. After all, she’s had more than one scare concerning her meetings with Rumpelstiltskin, and she wants someone who would stay quiet if she were to find out the queen’s deepest secrets.

In the end, she finds a woman that pleases her, old by the usual standards but strong looking and quiet. She’s the aunt of one of the girls who so wish to serve her, and as far as Regina can tell, she’s been working as a farm hand all her life, having had no suitors and no opportunity to raise children of her own. There’s something awfully severe about her features, her lips thin and seemingly always pressed in a tight and smile-less line. Her eyes, hard and sharp-looking, remind Regina of mother’s disapproving gaze, and the fact that she seems like the perfect choice for her because of that particular feature is something that Regina chooses not to question herself about.

“I expect nothing but the utmost discretion when it comes to my lifestyle,” he informs her. “You are to be my lady’s maid, and your loyalties will be to me and only me, not the princess or the king. If I find out you’ve been blabbering about me around the palace, you will lose your tongue.”

The woman seems unimpressed when she drones her next question. “And will you cut it yourself, Your Majesty?”

Smirking, Regina’s answer is a swift, “Of course, dear.”

The tightly amused smile that the woman bestows upon her tells Regina that she’s made the right choice. She has dresses made for her, dark purples and blacks, simple and comfortable, and soon enough her presence is noted around the palace, quiet whispers speaking of the queen’s bizarre choices. She’s pleased with the quietness of the woman, with her efficiency and with how she’s pledged her loyalties to Regina. Regina feels herself leaning into her with something close to ease, and so burdens her with all the tasks that she considers necessary, and doesn’t doubt in making the oddest of requests.

“Sometimes, I forget to eat,” she tells the woman one afternoon, as they’re walking together through the gardens. “You won’t allow me such behavior anymore; three meals a day, even if meager. You will force me if you must.”

The woman’s only response is a firm nod, and Regina wonders if she’s ever raised children despite not having any of her own. She respects Regina but isn’t above ordering her around, and clearly doesn’t find her particularly threatening, and Regina doesn’t know why she finds comfort in her severe attitude, in her lack of any real affection. Thinking of Johanna, Snow’s most beloved member of the staff, Regina wonders why it is that she prefers the quietness and coldness of this woman over the warm affection of someone like the round-faced maid.

Whatever the case, Regina finds herself safer and more secure than she has all these past years, surrounded by father, by her Black Guard and her quiet woman, moving about the kingdom in her carriage pulled by black steeds. Finally, she has allies, people of her own whose loyalties she’s willing to keep with whatever means necessary. The men are easy, food and ale being enough to congratulate them on a job well-done, but her quiet woman, Regina realizes with a surprise, only looks somewhat pleased when Regina kindly offers her a rose from the garden.

 

* * *

 

For Snow’s sixteenth birthday, Regina insists on a proper ball being held. King Leopold opposes her as he never has before, but Regina argues that the princess requires a proper coming of age commemoration, and that it can simply be held a week after the date, so as to respect late Queen Eva’s memory. Once the king is convinced out of his bullheadedness and agrees to the festivity, though, he goes overboard with the celebration, and chooses to hold a one week affair of balls, dinners, hunts and a variety of different entertainments for just about every single royal in the kingdom. Regina, undeterred, takes the reins and busies herself with the organization of the princess’ celebration, despite the clear dislike the Head of Household has for her. Once Regina’s done with this festivity, though, no one will be able to deny how adept she is at this sort of tasks; after all, without mother’s overbearing presence judging her every move, she almost enjoys the work that’s to be done.

Regina supervises every single event, as well as organizing the palace so it’s ready to receive a larger amount of people than usual. Snow follows her every step, and Regina is even glad to allow her to take charge over certain aspects of the organization, if only because as long as she’s busy, she’s not prattling away to Regina’s inattentive ears. Truth be told, the palace’s staff is efficient and works like a well oiled machine, and once the Head of Household’s domineering presence is avoided, Regina finds that no one finds her entirely unpleasant to work with, even when they don’t seem to understand why she has the need to be constantly surrounded by her austere lady’s maid and one of her guards.

The first night of the festivities, when a grand opening ball is to be held, Regina finds herself in Snow’s bedchambers, waiting for her to be dressed. Regina has supervised the clothing as well, and has even made a present out of the white gown Snow is to wear tonight, if only to avoid the girl being weighted down by one of the seamstress’ overly ornamental concoctions. That woman was responsible for her own wedding dress, and Regina has never hated a garment quite as much as that monstrosity she was forced to carry around all night long.

“So, how does it look?” Snow questions the moment she appears before Regina, her hands nervous as they straighten the fabric of her skirt while simultaneously going up to the back of her neck where most of her hair has been piled up in a low bun.

Regina _tsks_ at her until she stays still, and pushes her to look at herself in the full length mirror. Snow is clearly brimming with excitement, her skin almost vibrating uncontrollably, as if she can hardly contain all of her emotions inside her small frame. Regina stands next to her, and besides Snow’s fresh and pale beauty, it seems to her that her own good looks are entirely too stern. Standing together in front of the mirror, they look to her as a tragic parody of her own mother and herself when she’d been Snow’s age, and the parallel leaves her feeling old and tired. The scar above her lip, which she has gotten so adept at ignoring, has never looked more prominent to her than in this moment.

Moving her eyes away from their figures, Regina says, “You look wonderfully beautiful tonight, Snow.”

She’s not lying, Snow most definitely a vision in white, everything that a young princess is supposed to be at her age, her demeanor and excitement matching the natural blush of her cheeks, and the elegance of features that are just the right kind of round. There’s something very candid in Snow’s beauty, almost physically warm, and Regina can’t help but feel irresistibly charmed by her. Still, it is not her who is meant to admire the princess’ attributes, and so she ushers her so they move along and towards the ballroom already, where all of their guests are waiting for Snow’s big entrance.

They walk together hand in hand, Snow pulling from Regina’s arm in that way that’s already familiar, where Regina has to control their pace so Snow doesn’t break into a run. They finally stop by the doors, side by side, but before Snow allows the guards to announce them, she turns on the spot and throws sudden and strong arms around Regina’s frame, bringing her closer for an embrace that makes Regina stiff her posture unwittingly. Whether Snow feels Regina’s discomfort or not Regina doesn’t know, but she eventually brings her own arms up and around Snow, pressing her hands flat to her back in the hopes that answering the gesture will make the princess step away soon.

Snow clearly has a different idea when Regina’s response only prompts her to cling even tighter to her, and to murmur softly against her ear, “I love you, Regina.”

The feeling is spoken intimately, just for Regina to hear. Regina tries to answer with a simple _I love you, too,_ but the words die on her throat, tying her tongue into an uncomfortable knot and making her flat palms curl until her hands resemble claws clinging to the back of Snow’s dress. Were her hands ungloved, Regina would be digging hard nails on the naked skin of Snow’s shoulder blades. She has told so many lies, built so many a fake relationship, but she can’t bring herself to carry this out. It’s always harder with Snow, with this girl that she may just have loved if her mistakes hadn’t ripped away everything that Regina had held dear in her life. She can’t love her now, though, can’t quench the bitter resentment that makes her want to take away everything that Snow loves just so she can understand the fate that she has bestowed upon Regina. And if she’s to destroy everything that Snow cherishes, then she will have to destroy herself, or at least the beloved sister figure that she has forced herself to be to earn Snow’s affections.

Snow must believe her clogged with emotion, for she releases her from the embrace even when Regina hasn’t given an answer to her words. With the princess a step away from her, Regina begins to breathe properly once again, and is quick to regain her composure so she can face Snow’s birthday ball.

The ball is certainly splendorous, just like Regina remembers her own birthdays being back in the day. Snow glows as the clear center of attention, and Regina knows her pretty feet will hurt by the end of the night from having danced with just about every eligible bachelor in the room. Regina herself falls easily into the routines mother instilled in her so early in her life, and she refuses food and becomes the picture of the perfect hostess that she’s meant to be, enviously watching as Snow laughs boisterously and enjoys the sweets that are being passed around freely.

Regina skirts the edges of the ballroom, seething even when she knows quite clearly that she isn’t meant to be center of attention. She doesn’t want to be, but she hates that while she knows she’s being watched and scrutinized by most of the guests, none of them seem particularly inclined to engage her beyond the basic formalities. She feels uncomfortable in her skin tonight, Snow’s declaration having rattled her, and she can hardly wait for this to be over. There’s still a whole week of festivities she has to get through, and she can’t just be fed up so early in the game.

 

* * *

 

Next morning, Snow comes to her as soon as the sun is up, before Regina can even begin to understand why she’s to be pulled so early from some hard earned sleep, just so she can tell her all about the wondrous time she had last night. She blabbers on and on, and Regina has almost stopped listening completely when Snow reveals the secret that she’d clearly been intending to disclose, and tells Regina about one Prince Richard, so lovely, attentive and gallant that he’d only danced with her, and had claimed every single one of her free moments. As Snow talks about the sweetness of his smile, and the feel of his hands at her back, cheeks flushed with the beginnings of young love, Regina does her best at searching her mind for whoever this prince may be, but she comes up empty. It hardly matters to her, though, not when all of Regina’s senses are suddenly craving destruction and mayhem. Snow is undeserving of the happiness that colors her cheeks, and Regina won’t allow it.

She soon finds out who the infamous Prince Richard is, Baroness Irene once again proving to be her best source of information. He’s the fourth son of a barely known kingdom south of the border, and whether his affections for Snow are true or not, he certainly won’t mind the crown that comes attached to her hand and virtue, when his position in his own family is so lowly. Except that crown is Regina’s by right, and she won’t have some dumb faced young prince stealing it from her. Getting rid of him had been her most primitive instinct, but now she realizes it may also be a necessity. Once King Leopold is out of the picture, Regina will have a much stronger claim to the throne if Snow is single and unattached, instead of married to some young promising lad. Keeping Snow unwed and on her side for as long as the king is alive is more important than Regina would have thought.

When she can’t find the prince among the throng of people spending the week as their guests, Regina turns to her mirror and searches for him with what has turned out to be her favorite magic trick so far. Rumpelstiltskin had even been quietly impressed when she’d began to conjure up images in her looking glass without him having taught her the specifics behind that kind of magic.

“Do you hate looking at yourself so much that you need to look at someone else, dearie?” he’d taunted her, forever cruel in his remarks.

Regina had bristled, but once she’d calmed down, she’d found a new kind of sickly satisfaction in using her new acquired power to spy on her oppressive teacher. Rumpelstiltskin must have found out, for Regina had soon discovered his own mirrors covered by thick pieces of fabric, and his castle magically shielded against her spells. Knowing that a small part of Rumpelstiltskin was at least wary of her had certainly been more than exhilarating.

Her search for the prince’s whereabouts proves fruitful, and she catches him as he rides next to King Leopold on one of the organized hunts. The prince, attractive in a bland sort of way, all blonde hair and chiseled jaw, is certainly aiming high. Regina allows herself to spy on him for a bit longer, and eventually catches him canoodling with Snow on the waning lights of the evening, ironically enough right below her apple tree. When Regina sees them kiss, Snow blushing and stepping away as if even the small touch is much too inappropriate for her, Regina feels her own chest constrict painfully, memories buried within her heart threatening to drown her with emotion. Daniel had kissed her a few weeks after she’d turned sixteen under that very same tree, and Regina hadn’t shied away from the touch, instead she’d clung and clung to his frame, as if a part of her had already known that they were doomed to a tragic end. Daniel rests among the dead now, and Regina can’t allow Snow to enjoy the sweetness of young love.

In the end, getting rid of Prince Richard is easier than anticipated. A few well placed looks on Regina’s part, a small, precise touch to the visible skin of her collarbones, her tongue gliding casually over her lower lip, and with a simple nod of her head the prince is following her outside and to the gardens while Snow dances around with someone else during the second ball of the celebrations. Regina spares a last glance to Snow’s light pink gown and to the glide of it against the dance floor, before she steps outside with a sneer painted on her lips.

The prince follows, traps her against the wall and his body as Regina plays coy. From up close, she guesses she can see the appeal; the prince is older than Snow but younger than her, and his features are strong but not harsh, painting an easy picture of gallantness. Regina finds him utterly boring in every single aspect, and as he speaks to her words of adoration, clearly more fond of the sound of his own voice than of Regina’s attributes, she flattens her palms over his chest and causes him to smile cockily. He’s still smiling when she pushes forward and up,  her hand wrapping around the comforting weight of his heart and pulling. Now she’s taken his heart away from Snow is all ways possible, and as she looks at the brightness of it, she considers her choices. Killing him would be easy, and she hardly thinks the world would be a worse place for his absence, but she thinks better of it at the last minute. Rather than punishing him, she chooses to punish Snow instead, and so she instructs her new puppet.

“I want you to break Snow White’s heart,” she tells him. “Be cruel about it.”

After that, Regina doesn’t need to spy on the prince to learn the story, for Snow searches for her to tell it herself, and to use Regina’s shoulder as a crying pillow. Snow comes to her late at night, entering her bedchambers with the same lack of sense of privacy that she has exhibited all her life, and wastes no time in climbing into bed with her and finding her under the covers. When she first hugs Regina, it seems to her as she’s the one being cradled other than the other way around, but Snow is quick to move her face to the crook of Regina’s neck, where her humid and cold tears sip into the thin fabric of Regina’s nightgown. Regina makes the right movements automatically, one of her hands moving to Snow’s hair in a sweet caress, and her lips shushing her in mindless whispers. It scares her, sometimes, how easily she slips into the lie.

“What it is, dear? What happened?”

Snow can barely speak, her throat choking as she tries to explain the pain of rejection, the humiliation of being taken advantage of. The way Snow talks about Prince Richard’s cruel words suggests that she can’t understand why anyone would posses such malice, why someone may choose to be so terrible. Snow’s flower filled world view is being skewed, distorted, and Regina is taking pleasure in being the one to cause the disruption. She may just be doing Snow a favor, anyway, making her understand that utter kindness is not the way of the real world, the way she has been brought up to think. What would Snow think if Regina were to tell her how much brutality her own father is capable of? But Regina doesn’t wish to destroy this girl with a single stroke, knowing fairly well how slow and small chinks can be far more damaging. If there’s any advantage to having felt so much pain inflicted into her own flesh, then it’s definitely understanding how to cause it herself.

Snow’s tears subside eventually, and Regina feels her sag and relax against her arms, her tense frame finally giving up. She’ll be asleep in no time, invading Regina’s space without questioning whether she’s welcomed or not. Regina allows it, for there’s little else she can do, but before she can relax herself, Snow jumps from her place between Regina’s arms, propping her weight on her elbow and hovering above Regina, fixing her with a most determined gaze.

“I’ll never fall in love,” she states, fire in her tone like Regina hasn’t quite heard before. “It’s not worth it.”

A smile spreads across Regina’s face, her hand coming up to rest somewhere between Snow’s neck and collarbone as it does. “One silly prince won’t be the end of you, dear,” Regina tells her, licking her lips before she continues with, “But you are going to be queen, and you don’t need any distractions, so perhaps it’s for the better.”

Snow nods at her statement, so focused on her pain and as oblivious as ever to Regina’s own feelings that she doesn’t notice the way Regina tenses at her own words. Mother’s lessons always burn harsh and true inside her chest, but this time the shadow of her memory seems to loom more than ever, Regina’s tongue so easily shaping words entirely too similar to the ones mother had given her when Daniel had been laying on the ground, dead. Her expression turns sour, twisted, and her hand trembles where it’s resting on Snow’s skin. The princess has already sagged back against her, though, her sudden glimpse of hardness gone to give way to eyes like those of a sad puppy. Regina wants to kick. She has half a mind to reach for the prince’s heart still in her possession and crush it, take undeserving life away in payment for her lover lost.

Regina does nothing, though, focusing herself on the shape of Snow cuddling up to her and on the way her breathing is slowing down, giving way to sleep. She’s too tall to share Regina’s bed by now, and she makes Regina feel intruded upon, disrespected even in her most intimate space. Crushing the prince’s heart would be truly easy, but what Regina truly wants to destroy is the girl in her arms, trustworthy and oblivious in her love. It’s much too soon, though, far too early to strike, and far too easy a punishment for Snow’s sins. Regina wants her tears, she wants her pain and her misery, she wants to take away little by little until there’s nothing left of sweet, perfect Princess Snow White.

 

* * *

 

Regina considers with utmost seriousness and gravity whether to put Prince Richard’s heart back or not now that he’s fulfilled his purpose, but she ends up thinking better of it, and by the time the palace has gone back to its usual routine and its most uncommon guests have left the premises, the heart remains in Regina’s possession. She uses one of mother’s boxes to stash it, and tries very hard to ignore the beating of collected hearts that permeates her secret vault. Regina has kept away from this place for the most part, only visiting it when she’d wanted to search through mother’s books, or when Rumpelstiltskin had goaded her into it. It’s unsettling, to give the secret space the same use mother did, but she refuses to think of herself as somehow being anything like mother. Mother collected hearts for no apparent reason other than coercion, after all, but Regina has a much bigger and particular purpose for the use of the vault.

Holding Prince Richard’s heart in her hand, Regina had realized that even if she’s been puppeteer-ing the court around herself to the best of her abilities, she hasn’t been nearly ambitious enough in her endeavors. Snow’s little failed romance with the prince has brought a much bigger political panorama to the forefront of her mind, and now she clearly sees that she needs to exert control beyond presenting herself as someone worthy of approval. She needs to take the reins of Leopold’s kingdom, and she needs to be aware of surrounding lands, so that by the time she chooses to get rid of her husband, there will be no doubt about who is in control. In order to do that, she requires a constant flux of information, she needs a web of spies on every kingdom that adjoins with Leopold’s, and she knows her mirror tricks will only take her so far. A few meat puppets carefully placed and with the unwavering loyalty of owning their hearts, well, that’s a much better prospect.

There will be time for that though, but for now, Regina needs to focus her efforts within Leopold’s lands. The truth is she’s not particularly aware of the important matters on the kingdom, seeing as she has barely left the palace all these years and all her knowledge comes from travelling noblemen who care more for court gossip than for commercial trades or border patrols. So, what Regina needs, is to weave her way into King Leopold’s council meetings, a right that should be unquestionably hers as queen of the land, but that Leopold has adamantly denied her many a time before.

When she asks this time it’s no different, of course. Regina may just think that there’s a logical or political maneuver behind Leopold’s refusal, or that perhaps he suspects her of wanting power, but she’s fairly confident that the king has simply gotten used to denying her requests out of spite. Ever since she cursed him, he hasn’t tried to touch her and his presence has vanished completely from her bedchambers, which should have smoothed out their relationship, if only because Regina doesn’t have a lot of chances to make him squirm, but that isn’t the case. He’s grown more possessive of her, not wanting her but hating when anyone even dares look her way, and he seems to be extremely fond of hiding her away for days inside her bedchambers under the pretense of taking care of her integrity and virtue. Regina would be angrier at him if only such behavior didn’t help her hurt little queen story, which the court is more and more convinced of as time passes. A few well placed tears, declarations of love for a husband that won’t look at her and pretense desire for children that she’ll never have now that he doesn’t touch her, have put her in a perfectly victimized position, and have made King Leopold a villain where it concerns his young wife.

King Leopold’s villainy is not a complete lie, in any case, at least not when it comes to Regina. It seems to her as if she tests all his boundaries, as if while he’s capable of being affable and kind when faced with just about any stranger, he can’t even force himself to pretend that she doesn’t make him utterly nervous and angry. He plays his cards well when they’re forced together in public, but he can hardly bring himself to look into her eyes when they’re alone. Regina’s perverse delight in his suffering is perhaps one of the biggest satisfactions of life at court, and the only reason why she’s able to gather the patience not to end the man’s life as soon as possible.

Faced with the decision of letting her into the council, he remains stoic in his negative answer, though. Regina argues that she doesn’t even want to intervene, but merely watch the proceedings, but he stays adamant and frustratingly obstinate, showing a strength of spirit that Regina has never seen before, not when she only dealt with him in the darkness of her chambers. Regina punishes him as she knows best – by forcing her presence on him as much as she can. Particularly, she has taken to showing up at his suppers with Snow and other noblemen regularly, wearing inappropriately ornate outfits, making late entrances and drawing attention to herself. She barely eats in these occasions, and she knows it unsettles people around her, and cements her image of the sad, tortured girl in their minds, as well as that of Leopold’s foolish and cruel ways.

Nonetheless, when her efforts prove fruitless, Regina rages and screams, and then finally decides to go about getting her way in a different manner. Turning eyes full of woe towards Baroness Irene, she manages to fall in the circle of trust of her brother, Baron Edgar. The baron, much like his sister, is boisterous and entirely too fond of inappropriateness, but somehow he seems to Regina as kinder is his impulses. He’s older than the baroness, and just as plump as she is, but his big shouldered frame, protruding belly and fat cheeks somehow sit well with him, and Regina can’t imagine him being thinner or smaller. He treats her much too casually, but rather than trying to make a confidante out of her like his sister, his demeanor towards her is almost fatherly, which serves Regina’s purposes just fine. The baron is, after all, one of the oldest members of King Leopold’s council, and while not a close friend of the king, he certainly has influence and a loud and big voice, and he’s more than happy to take Regina under his wing and press for her inclusion in the council meetings insistently.

A fortnight after her first chat with the baron, Leopold grants her wish, and Regina smiles wolfishly and congratulates herself on her choice of false friends. She has spent countless hours listening to Baron Edgar recount stories of old battles and rain praise on his valiant sons, big eyes and attentive ears for every single one of his words, so she’s certain she deserves her prize.

The council meets once every fortnight, whenever there isn’t urgent business to attend. Considering how Leopold has made a point of staying as far away from conflict as possible, there usually aren’t any particularly crucial matters to attend to. Regina has never before entered the Council Room, but she appreciates the darker atmosphere and smallness of it as soon as she walks in. There’s nothing but a big sturdy table surrounded by uncomfortable looking chairs in it, Leopold’s seat raised slightly above the others but clearly not made to be sat upon for a long time either. Most light comes from candles rather than the outside, and while the chamber may be considered stuffy, Regina can appreciate a design created for focus and work. This is clearly not a place to relax, nor a place to stay long hours trapped in, which implies that kingdom business is to be dealt with swiftly and efficiently.

Regina doesn’t get a seat at the table, but rather takes a chair set for her behind Leopold’s and a little to the side, lest someone believe that she’s somehow important to the matters of the kingdom in any way. Regina would be furious by King Leopold’s humiliating tactics if only the place given to her didn’t afford her the opportunity to do exactly what she intends to do, which is watch and learn. The men of the council, for there is not one single woman in it, don’t seem particularly inclined to acknowledge her presence either, except for Baron Edgar, who winks her way as he nods his salute, earning himself a brilliant smile from Regina.

For weeks, Regina merely watches. There are ten members to the council, most of them either about Leopold’s age or verging on their deathbeds – honestly, the Treasury Master can barely _see_ the numbers he so furiously writes at all times – with the exception of the Master of Ships, who is young, stupid and looks more like a pirate than like a naval officer. He has just about every quality Regina despises in a man, but then again, the ancient line of advisors to the king barely deserve more than contempt and derision on her part. The Law Advisor, in particular, rubs her in all the wrong ways, with his penchant for subtle jives against Leopold’s demeanor which the king is too doltish to understand, and the way his eyes roam the curve of Regina’s neck with disgusting lust etched in their corners.

Regina doesn’t speak during their meetings, but  she listens, and when she considers herself ready, she begins seeking out the members of the council when they’re by themselves, so as to acquaint herself with them personally. She’s had weeks to read them and their behaviors, and so she knows which disposition to present when she meets with each one of them. She wants them to trust her, after all, and so in exchange she becomes exactly what they want her to be, whether that’s a faux granddaughter, as is the baron’s desire, or a dumb, wide-eyed girl impressed by smarts like the Military Advisor seems to prefer, or the quiet and impudent seductress that the Master of Ships requires. She rebuilds herself for each of them, and with pointed questions and the right attitude she begins learning, as they all allow her to inspect maps of the realm, royal accounts and general trade strategy with the neighboring kingdoms. She learns of their opinions on King Leopold, of battles that were never waged due to the king’s peaceful disposition, of laws that haven’t been changed for centuries, and of a king that seems content to leave things as they are, not questioning himself in the possibility of improvements.

The more Regina learns, and the further she goes in her relationship with the members of the council, the easier it is for her to insert her opinions into their heads. It requires subtlety and care, most men being prickly at being told what to do by a woman younger than themselves. Regina knows how to play her cards right, though, and so she knows to pose her ideas to the Law Advisor as questions that make her seem a little dim-witted, learns to distract him with the right amount of cleavage and lingering touches to her own collarbones. The Treasury Master is easier, having fallen half in love with her the moment she gifted him with a pair of the best handcrafted glasses she could get her hands on. The Master of Ships enjoys caging her and playing into her false seduction, but also seems to enjoy her when she takes on a domineering demeanor and expresses her ideas clearly. With similar tactics for each and every member, soon enough they’re articulating her own ideas at the council's official meetings, and so, while remaining absolutely quiet and unobtrusive, she gets herself a public voice.

Her ploys and discoveries fill her up with satisfaction, making her realize that she enjoys the challenge of conquering people’s minds, and that the taste of power and control sits well within her. Not only that, but with her mind busy with such projects, she doesn’t have enough time to dwell in her most painful memories, in the empty spaces within herself. Idleness will kill her, she realizes, and so long as she spends her days with every hour filled to the brim with tasks, she will survive. Not only that, but she will come out as the true controlling force behind the kingdom’s business, seeing as her mind is more than prepared to rule over the land that is bound to become only hers.

Sometimes, though, fear conquers her, her forever chameleonic nature making her forget who she truly is. The political game is enjoyable, too, and so very easy to get lost into that Regina sometimes worries that her real ambitions are getting lost behind a hazy curtain of royal power. She is not to forget what she needs power for, after all, and she can’t allow herself the joy of completely forgetting the reasons that have caused her pain and emptiness. The goal of revenge is what keeps her blood flowing, and she mustn’t lose sight of the heads she wants to put on a platter.

It’s easy to remind herself of just who she is when she’s in Rumpelstiltskin’s hands. With him, she doesn’t play any roles, and so she sees herself consumed by seething rage, impatient, losing her temper when she fails to learn what the imp intends to teach her. Rumpelstiltskin is more than happy to crack most of her façade, and despite claiming how much he hates them, to push her into her worst tantrums. He’s tricky and takes delight in her misery, but she can hardly disentangle their common web now, not when Regina accepted his guiding hand so surely after she lost her baby. If there’s revenge to be had, then Rumpelstiltskin is surely her best bet, never mind the distress he causes her, and his regular rudeness towards her.

They don’t meet as often these days, anyway, Rumpelstiltskin claiming that her magic is improving by leaps and bounds, and that what she needs is practice and patience. Regina doesn’t know if she should believe him or not, especially as he insists on speaking in riddles and predictions that she can’t wrap her head around. He obviously wants something from her, has wanted it since the very beggining, but she can’t imagine what his big picture planning could be. It’s undeniable, though, that she’s right where he needs her to be, a fact that doesn’t afford her any relief. On the contrary, it has her wondering just how big a hand he’s had in the way her life has unfolded. She’s seen him work tricks and deals in ways that always get him what he wants, so she wouldn’t be surprised if all of their time together has been previously planned by his overworked little brain. Lately, she has been wondering just how much responsibility he had in King Leopold’s knights finding her when she escaped the palace, pregnant and unsure, but she’s afraid of getting a proper answer to her suspicions. She needs Rumpelstiltskin on her side, at least for now, and doesn’t think she can afford to put his power and his cunning against her. Perhaps, there will be time to consider waging war against the Dark One, but for now, he must be nothing but an annoying and abusive teacher.

No matter what, under Rumpelstiltskin’s guiding hands, Regina thrives. Her magic, which had at first been nothing but an accident, and later on a source of constant frustration, has turned into a welcome companion, a force to wield and control, a secret shield against the world that surrounds her. For now, it must be kept a secret, lest someone decide that she must be burnt for witchcraft, but once she’s powerful enough to claim her rightful throne, then she will be able to reveal the extent of her powers to the world, and no one will be able to hurt her anymore.

Regina’s plans keep moving forward when King Leopold receives a rare invite to spend a fortnight at King George’s Royal Castle, as there is urgent and important business they must discuss. Regina knows Leopold would rather stay within his own walls, old and tired as he is, and preferring a life of peaceful slumber, but she pushes the council into pressing the king to accept the invitation. King George’s kingdom is the most important of their neighboring lands, and Regina won’t allow Leopold to pass the opportunity of listening to whatever George has to say. Besides, whatever bothers Leopold pleases her in exchange, so the more he opposes the trip, the more Regina pushes for it.

Regina gets her wish, the council finally overruling Leopold’s desire for a tranquil life, and so they get ready to journey to King George’s lands. The journey will last two days, and Regina is to travel alongside the king and Snow in his carriage, rather than her own. She concedes the matter only putting up a token protest, and so readies herself for long and boring hours riding with her so-called family. She dresses herself in comfortable riding clothes, though, allowing Snow to do the same, and silently challenges Leopold to comment on how inappropriate their outfits are for a journey within a carriage. He doesn’t, though, perhaps resigned to Regina’s particular ways of disrupting his comfort, and even smiles when Snow states how comfortable it is to wear pants rather than dresses that make them both double their size.

Regina is forced to leave her Black Guard behind, but she travels with her lady’s maid and father, who chooses to travel as her valet, rather than as her family. Regina is done being offended by father’s wishes, and so she decides to thank the fact that he’s with her at all.

The journey is long and tiring, a night spent out in the woods, even if under elaborate tents, doing nothing to calm Regina’s temper. Snow has been steadily informing her of whatever piece of gossip she’s learnt from noblemen from King George’s kingdom, and Regina would have been interested if only her prattle had been about anything else other than future marriages and pregnancies. Regina is far more interested in the possibility of tightening their trading relations with George and letting him know how failing to do so may just leave him bankrupt, considering their geographical situation and merchant routes. She hopes against all hope that George may be the kind of man to listen to a woman.

Once they are settled in George’s castle, Snow thrives. Half with pride and half with envy, Regina watches the princess conquer the new court around her, soft smiles and easy laughter making her immediately popular amongst crowds of girls and boys alike. Surprised, Regina realizes that she’s done a good job with Snow; she’s polite but candid, can hold conversations on just about any topic given to her, and the fact that she’s both a renown rider and quite the adept archer makes her interesting enough without making her completely foreign. Along with her natural ease, she finds herself surrounded by a crowd of sycophants that she will be more than happy to blabber about once she remembers Regina’s existence.

Her own relationship with Snow has become colder as of late, Regina’s own growing dislike for the girl being only half to blame for the fact. Now that Snow’s older, she’s more than happy to spend her time with girls from the court that match her in age and station, and once again Regina has been relegated to her place as discarded toy, favored only when a shoulder to cry on or an ear to listen is needed. Regina has been almost grateful for the change, seeing as she’s more than ready to destroy Snow’s happiness, and it’s better for her when the temptation of wringing the girl’s neck isn’t brought forward all that often. Still, when Snow had missed one of their usual lunches and had claimed to had simply forgotten, Regina had cancelled them altogether, feeling slighted and pettily maligned. All the effort she’s put into the girl seems to her as wasted if the princess is so easily going to discard her.

In this occasion, though, Regina is more than happy to leave Snow to her own dealings, as the good stepmother she’s supposed to be. Rather than spending her time with the princess, she instead forces herself to fawn appropriately in the company of the married women of the court, who are particularly preoccupied with Princess Isabella’s new daughter, a plump little thing that Regina can barely bear to look upon. The child is deserving of the adoration bestowed upon her, but Regina feels her insides tighten at the sight, pained when the universe taunts her with the image of what she will never have. It seems to her that even her stomach physically recoils, and that her almost fading scar itches when it has never bothered her before.

It is with delight, then, that Regina dedicates herself to the task of finding an opportunity to ambush King George and draw his attention, a feat that she accomplishes on their third day at the Royal Castle. She finds a group of men by the entrance to the gardens, Leopold and George among them, clearly in the midst of a heated discussion, and approaches them gingerly, hovering close while pretending to be interested in the newly bloomed roses before her. She touches her fingers to one of the yellow buds, petals soft on her skin, and as she’s leaning forward, chest and neck on display, manages to catch the attention of part of the group. The men quiet almost immediately, prompting Leopold to turn her way. His first instinct is to grimace, and even if he hides the expression soon enough, Regina catches it and smiles in his direction.

“Gentlemen, please,” Leopold begins then. “We should leave this business talk for our meetings; we wouldn’t want to bore the ladies with our gibberish.”

Regina widens her smile as she stands up straight again, turning towards the whole group with purpose, putting herself up for display. She’s learned to use her body to garner attention by now, and she’s not above using it as a weapon, not when most men would be more than happy to simply _use it._ “On the other hand, my dear husband,” she says, approaching the group now and touching her hands to Leopold’s arm as if it was a familiar gesture for them, something complicit and fond. “I’m rather interested in whatever dealings you may have with King George; His Majesty is, after all, our most valued ally.”

George looks at her then, appraising. It is a bold move on her part to interrupt men’s dealings like this, inappropriate by every standard, but Regina is willing to bet on King George’s smarts dismissing whatever prejudice he may have about her womanly condition. He proves her chances to have been well taken when, after raising a curious eyebrow, he offers her his arm, more stern than gallant, but certainly secure.

“Perhaps the queen will be so kind as to share her views with our council.”

Regina, all smirks and pride, takes George’s offered arm, answering his silent question and dismissing Leopold all at the same time, and simply says, “It will be my pleasure, Your Majesty.”

Leopold seethes at her interrupting his dealings, but is soon relegated to the background as she easily commands the discussion held with George. Leopold seems surprised, too, at her accurate knowledge of the kingdom, and Regina can do nothing but roll her eyes at the man’s stupidity. She has been pulling the strings of his own council for months now, and the man truly believes that she’s nothing but a passive presence in his own meetings. Serves him right, for thinking of her as little else but a whore with a crown on her head.

King George, on the other hand, proves to be a man worthy of respect. He’s authoritative and his character verges constantly on unpleasantness, but he’s strong-spirited, and he speaks clearly and with bluntness. He also seems to be content as long as he’s speaking with intellectual equals, never mind age or sex, and so as soon as Regina proves further knowledge of their trading dealings than Leopold, he refers to her unquestionably. Regina finds herself thinking that she may have just been happier had George asked for her hand all those years ago, on her seventeenth birthday. She wouldn’t have loved him, and she certainly wouldn’t have been more pleased with bedding him than Leopold, but they may have just understood each other with ease. She has a feeling that George would have wanted her to be a true queen, and not the babysitter and concubine that Leopold had condemned her to be.

 

* * *

 

King George organizes a ball in their honor during their first week there, and he spares no expense to celebrate them as propriety dictates. The whole court seems more than pleased by the event, even if the absence of Prince James, George’s son, is spoken off in whispers and murmurs. Regina has caught sight of the prince just the once, when he’d rudely interrupted one of her meetings with George, and she’d thought him vapid and cocky, all leather pants and painted face like some wannabe scoundrel. In the whole five minutes they’d shared a room, he’d looked Regina up and down with half a smirk edged on his face, which he’d only completed once Regina had rolled her eyes at the boy’s antics. Honestly, he couldn’t be older than eighteen, but he was bound to be a disappointment if he continued down such a path. She’d thought, then, that perhaps Prince James would have benefited from her own views on proper education more than Snow. George worships him, though, even when his own proper character suggests otherwise, and his glare is more than enough to quiet any and all rumors regarding his son.

The ball is beautiful, and Regina finds herself admiring the elegant dresses, the twinkling lights and the warm atmosphere despite herself. Snow very easily makes herself the center of attention, and Regina seethes, hating how simple it is for her to gather recognition, where Regina has had to fight every step of the way to be seen as something other than the foreign and sad little queen. Why should Regina have to work so hard for something that Snow is openly gifted with? Perhaps just her station is enough to freely grant her all that Regina must earn.

There are no partners for Regina to dance with tonight, father being relegated to his role as valet and Leopold unwilling to even play his part as loyal husband. Regina hates herself for wishing for a dance, for wanting to glide with light feet over the dance floor and forget, if only for a few moments, everything that isn’t the music and the movement of her own body. Alas, she finds herself instead amongst a group of men, all claiming to want her opinion when she knows at least half of them merely prefer the sight of her over that of their wives. She would be pleased if only one of them offered a dance, honestly. They don’t, but at least King George provides entertainment when he poses the most curious question.

“Pardon me, Your Majesty,” he begins, eyes boring into Regina’s in that way that she has learnt he uses to gauge his opponents, as if every conversation was a battle to be won. “Have we met before this visit?”

Next to him, Duke Wentworth, he of the droopy eyes and sagging neck, exclaims, “You claim to have forgotten such a beauty as our lovely Queen Regina, George? You should be ashamed of yourself, old friend.”

Regina gauges the two men, good old friends with an easy rapport between them, and studies the situation. She’s surrounded by at least five other pairs of eyes, and perhaps she should bite her tongue, but then again, she's earned herself the epithet of _bold_ amongst these men, and she doesn’t think she should disappoint them. She knows most of them think of such a term for her with amusement, as if she’s funny and inconsequential, but it’s certainly better than being thought of as mild and boring. With that in mind, she chooses to answer with nothing but the truth.

“You will excuse His Majesty for having forgotten me, Duke, for seventeen year old me was considered a little girl with narrow hips by his sharp mind.” She laughs, short but deep, amused at her own words, and then feigns the slightest of playful pouts as she says, “Mother was certainly disappointed when I was deemed undeserving of a marriage proposal.”

“By gods, George! Surely your biggest mistake to date!” The duke laughs after his words, hands splayed on his belly. It’s a good laugh, big and careless, and Regina would like it if only she was capable of one herself.

King George takes no mind of his friend’s comment, though, and instead focuses a determined eye on Regina, clearly trying to make the connection. It takes a moment, but soon enough he’s lifting both eyebrows in recognition. “Princess Cora’s daughter, of course; quite the woman, Your Majesty’s mother.”

“Yes, indeed she was,” Regina answers politely, not sure whether the king means his words to be a compliment or not. Knowing mother, they probably are nothing of the sort.

The duke interrupts their stare down easily, bellowing, “Now George, you must pay your price for your mistake; you won’t deny the queen a gift to make up for such a horrendous slight.”

King George is not a particularly kind man, and Regina is fairly sure she hasn’t seen him smile at all since they’ve been guests at his castle, but after his friend’s comment, he offers her something close to a smirk. Then, quite politely, he says, “Whatever the queen wishes, as long as I can provide.”

Regina gives the men around her a smile, smug and flirty, trying to create anticipation at whatever it is she may wish. With a single touch to George’s arm, though, what she says is, “Let’s just say that you will owe me a favor, Your Majesty.”

The men laugh around her, but George merely fixes her with a hard stare. Regina inclines her head sideways, questioning the sudden stern demeanor of the man, who was up until now as relaxed as she’s ever seen him. Thinking back to her own words, she realizes that it may have as well been Rumpelstiltskin speaking them, and so she finds herself biting her lower lip, amused predator quietly mocking the king. She wouldn’t have pegged a man so strict for one to deal with the Dark One, but then Rumpelstiltskin always finds the strangest of allies.

When Regina breaks her staring match with King George, she finds herself entirely too tired to continue with the conversation. She has been entertainment enough for the men tonight, so she says breezily, “Now if you’ll excuse me gentlemen, I would like to get some air.” She fans herself with her hand, playing into her own lie, and quickly leaves the group behind her, big fake smile plastered on her lips when they make a show of loud complaints about losing her presence.

Once outside, Regina breaks all signs of posturing and allows her shoulders to sag forward as she reaches up with both hands to rub at the back of her neck. She’s stupendously tired, and she’s surprised she’s lasted this long without breaking anything, considering how she hasn’t had a moment to herself at all for the past week. It’s certainly easier to keep up her masks when she’s back at the palace and she can hide away in her bedchambers every once in a while. With a sigh and rolling her shoulders back a few times, she walks a bit into the Royal Castle’s gardens and finds a bench to seat on. Her dress fluffs around her as she does so, and as lovely as it is, she wishes she could be in a comfortable shift rather than in the corseted prison oppressing her torso and chest. Even with her tiredness, though, she can’t deny that the gardens are rather lovely, the smell of recently cut grass and sweet spring flowers wafting up to her and calming her senses.

Surrounded by fresh aromas, Regina closes her eyes, allowing weariness to claim her if only for just a second. She may just have been able to keep up playing around with her hosts if not for her lack of sleep as of late; Princess Isabella’s chubby and beautiful daughter has been plaguing her nightmares as of late, reds and blacks taking hold of her dreamscapes and taunting her with her own loses. Just this afternoon, she had been made to hold the child, and looking at the gurgling baby in her arms had twisted something painful inside her chest. She’d felt tears crawling up through her chest and to her throat, sticking there in a painful throb, and she’d almost run away from the women’s parlor and to the outside just to be able to breathe. Now, she laughs bitterly into the quiet of the night. How ironic that she can wrap experienced and wise men around her finger, but that a recently born baby may just be her undoing.

Regina keeps her eyes closed, hoping to clear her mind and simply rest for a bit, all the while massaging the back of her neck. She finds herself sighing softly at the touch of her own gloved fingers on her skin, and realizes that it’s been ages since anyone touched her without a purpose or calculation behind the move. Even Snow has grown wary of her in that respect, perhaps finally catching on to how Regina unwittingly stiffens whenever the princess reaches out for her.

“Why are you so tired?”

Regina nearly jumps she’s so startled by the squeaky voice cutting through the otherwise quiet place. She opens her eyes as she moves her head back, the movement so quick that it takes her a moment to focus her gaze on the figure before her. With a curious tilt to his head and big brown eyes, a child no older than ten is inspecting her from up close. An older man standing so into her own personal space would have been awarded an impolite and sharp barb, but the child merely makes her blink, surprised.

“Why are you so tired, milady?” he repeats, more polite this time and bringing himself into a straightened up stance, as if suddenly remembering lessons on propriety.

Regina can’t help but laugh as she looks at him, but she’s quick to cover the sound with the back of her hand when he frowns, perhaps thinking himself mocked. He’s quite the charming child, even with a frown marring his expression, and Regina has no doubt that he will grow into a handsome young man, sweet face touched by round cheeks and dark skin soft looking even under the poor lights of the garden. He coughs, and the sound makes Regina smile at how he’s obviously trying to make her talk.

“Actually, it’s Your Majesty,” she tells him.

“Oh,” he says, frown smoothing out and giving way to full open eyes filled with realization. He’s fantastically expressive, and Regina is already half in love.

“But you may call me Regina, if you so wish.”

“Mother says it’s polite to address people by their titles, Your Majesty,” he answers, something of a monotone crawling into his otherwise piping voice, as if he’s reciting a lesson. Regina would know, with how often she unconsciously repeats mother’s teachings herself.

“It will be our little secret,” she assures. “And who might you be, dear?”

He makes a show of lifting up his chin, a mockery of pride quickly refuted by a soft smile showing up in his face and forming two beautiful dimples. “I am Prince Bernard, Your Majesty.” Then, just as quickly, he deflates and with a sheepish shrug says, “Everyone calls me Bernie; you should call me Bernie.”

“Well, Bernie, why don’t you sit with me for a while?” Regina offers, patting the bench next to her, where her dress isn’t invading the cold stone.

The prince answers her question with a quick motion, and promptly sits right beside her, shoulders hunched forward and one leg bent at the knee and propped up on the bench. It manages to break away all the effort that his rich clothes and combed back hair are trying to accomplish, and Regina feels elated at the sight. She hadn’t thought she’d be enjoying any kind of company tonight, but Bernie is definitely a nice surprise; after all, there’s no need for masks and subterfuge with a child.

“What have you got there?” Regina questions, eyeing a squared small box that the prince has placed upon his lap with curiosity.

Opening up the box, Prince Bernard shows her its contents, and even if Regina doesn’t recognize the sweets nestled inside, she can already tell that they will be sugary and savory. The scent of honey overflows her senses, and suddenly Regina remembers that she’s barely had anything to eat today. She remembers a meager breakfast and some fruit for lunch taken only after her quiet woman and father had ganged up on her and stayed close together and watching her until she’d finished with the poor meal.

“Father brought them from Agrabah, they’re delicious!” Bernie exclaims. “Would you like to try one?”

Regina’s first instinct is to politely decline the offer, but Bernie’s ample smile makes her stop. She bites her lower lip, unsure, as if she’s breaking some kind of rule by wanting to try the offered candy. Eventually, though, she gives in and murmurs, “Maybe just one.”

Regina removes her glove so as not to stain the delicate fabric with the obviously gooey treat, and then picks one up and brings it to her mouth. The flavor is surprising, completely foreign to her palate and indeed entirely too sweet. She’s never been a big fan of anything so syrupy, but the taste of honey and something nutty explodes magnificently inside her mouth and against her tongue, the papery texture of it producing a satisfying crunch as she finishes the delicacy in two single bites. Shamefully, her stomach grumbles. It doesn’t seem to dishearten Bernie, who is enjoying a sweet himself while still offering the box to Regina, as if he doesn’t believe that she could only ever have one.

“Did you like it?” he asks, a goopy drop of honey lingering on the side of his mouth. Regina cleans it with her thumb, and is quick to bring it up and to her mouth to lick as she nods to the prince’s question. Goodness, if mother could see her she would be so very displeased. Thoughts of mother are quickly dismissed, though, when Bernie suddenly states, features serious and as business-like as he can manage, “I think I shall marry you one day.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” he says, nodding forcefully. “You’re the only person I’ve met who likes these sweets, and I’ll only marry someone I can share my meals with.”

Regina laughs, unbidden, enchanted to the core by the prince. She hasn’t felt this giddy in entirely too long, and the child’s enthusiasm opens up something long buried inside her chest, unraveling her. If only Bernie knew how much those simple words and desires touch her heart.

Still, when she answers him, what she says is, “Don’t you think I’m a little too old for you, dear?”

Bernie just frowns, confused, and leaning forward as if to study her from up close, he asks, “How old are you? ‘Cause father says these sweets are just for children.”

Regina barks out a laugh, and just to celebrate the kid’s impudence, she snags a second piece of candy for herself. “It is not polite to ask that of a lady, much less a queen,” she replies.

“Oh.”

She nibbles slowly at her food, and after she’s taken a full bite that’s left her mouth tinged with sweet and flavorful honey, she shrugs and carefully answers, “I recently turned twenty four.”

“Well, so when I turn sixteen, you will be only–”

“Don’t you dare, young man,” Regina exclaims, cutting his speech quickly and pointing at him with her extended finger while putting on her best mock stern face. “Don’t you dare finish that thought.”

Bernie harrumphs, but when he looks at her, it’s with a dimpled smile adorning his face. “I don’t care either way. Once I turn sixteen I will get on one knee, and I will ask you to marry me, and you will be so bewitched by my charms you won’t be able to deny me.”

“Won’t I now?”

“Of course not; I’m quite the charmer, grandmother says so.”

“That you are, dear.”

Her comment grants her the biggest smile she has seen on Bernie’s face yet, a gesture so genuine and childish that it manages to warm her heart. Without truly thinking about it, she finds herself bringing a hand to her chest, fabric and flesh suddenly made tangible under her fingers. Her heart’s beating under her palm, slow and steady, and maybe there’s still something there that knows how to feel. She closes her eyes as she contemplates the feeling, breathing the cool night air in slowly, the scent of flowers once again filling her up, along with the smell of honey and sugar. For a single second, she feels at peace with the world, and she relaxes in a way that massages to her own neck and rolling shoulders would have never accomplished. When she finally opens up her eyes again – and it feels like ages, but it mustn’t have been longer than three beats of her heart – Bernie is standing before her, one hand extended towards her, palm up, an obvious offering.

“Queen Regina,” he says, so steady, so full of infantile intent and a desire to be an adult. Regina wishes he would never grow up, never turn into a man that would need her to be something other than what she truly is.

“Yes, Prince Bernard?” she returns, voice clogged up by sudden emotion, and smile tiny but true.

“Queen Regina, would you do me the honor of granting me a dance?”

Regina lifts both eyebrows, amused and incredulous, but she can’t help herself when she nods and reaches forward, placing her palm against Bernie’s volunteered hand. “It will be my pleasure.”

And so Regina dances, after all, with a boy that barely reaches her chest and who clearly hasn’t had as many dancing lessons as needed to glide around the dance floor of an elegant ball. He steps on her feet and the bottom of her skirt, and when he insists on turning her their arms tangle impossibly, Regina trying her best at saving their height difference by crouching down but only managing to make them look positively ridiculous. Still, she laughs, and Bernie laughs with her, and whether the court around them thinks them adorable or completely graceless Regina doesn’t care; so many games, so many lies, and she may just deserve this one little reprieve. The candid warmth of Bernie’s laugh, she suspects, will stay with her for a very long time.

 

* * *

 

Prince Bernard proves to be the best possible reprieve for Regina’s feelings during the days they spend at George’s Royal Castle; after all, while escaping to her chambers to be alone would have been considered quite rude on her part, spending her time with the child has charmed most women around her, who had thought her cold before when looking at Princess Isabella’s baby had made her so absolutely frightened and tense. Men like to tease, too, taunt her about letting herself be conquered by the little rascal while they don’t get enough of her attention. Regina is more than pleased by the turn of events, but she finds that despite the successful ploy, she doesn’t particularly think of it as such, since she likes the little prince so much.

Prince Bernard is talkative and brass, and while he tries his best to act and look like a little nobleman his age should, he slips into childish behaviors more often than not, running when he shouldn’t, spitting inappropriate questions and pouting his way out of just about any mischief. He’s sweet and extremely expressive, his face incapable of hiding anything, so of course Regina can’t help but let herself get enchanted by that. He speaks often of his past, and so Regina learns that he hails from Agrabah, and that he’s actually the bastard child of the disgraced sister of the man he calls father, who took him under his wing when no one else was willing. While they have given him the title of prince, he certainly won’t be inheriting any lands or honors, and he may just depend on his family’s charity all his life, which is why he’s being thoroughly trained to become a knight of the crown. Despite his unbidden giddiness, Regina spies in him a kindred spirit, an orphan, unwanted and burdensome, alone even amongst throngs of people, judged by his position and the color of his skin, and so she’s more than willing to make him forget his situation, if only for a little while. Bernard seems happy when he speaks to her anyway, and also when he insists on bringing her foreign sweets that make Regina curious enough to anticipate them. With nothing but blabber, syrupy peaches and almond smelling treats, Prince Bernard soothes her heart in ways she thought where impossible.

When Regina finally leaves the castle along with the rest of Leopold’s entourage, she does it having received a kiss to her cheek, a box of sweets and a promise of monthly letters from Bernard. Regina has no hopes for the last to come to be, and she’s saddened by the child that Bernie will stop being once he grows into a man that Regina won’t be able to trust.

Bernard’s presents are not her only presents, though, and she carries away with her the heart of King George’s valet, as well as that of one of the youngest and least consequential members of his council, convinced that there will be no business King George will attend to without her knowledge. King George, though, proves to be the kind of man Regina expected him to be by leaving a parting gift for her as well in the form of a beautifully exquisite pen, made of colorful crystals, and accompanied by the simple message of _To an everlasting friendship._ Now, Regina knows George has clearly understood who truly has the reins of King Leopold’s kingdom, and who it is that he’s to keep on his good side.

Regina’s enthusiasm at such a fruitful journey doesn’t last long, since the moment they stop to spend the night in the woods, Leopold pounces, invading her personal tent with so much fury written in his eyes that he almost forgets how fretful he gets when he’s around Regina. His fury is quick and loud, and even when Regina knows he will deflate in no time, that doesn’t stop him from yelling at her as he rides out the first wave of his bravado.

“What sort of behavior do you think a queen must exhibit when journeying with her king?” is what he says, his hand fisted and his body taut, tense all the way from his toes and up to his shoulders, which he’s angling forward as if he intends to add a physical attack to his angry words. “I will not stand for such- such _flirting_ and inappropriate–”

Regina scoffs, stopping his speech with that simple gesture. She could explain to the king how, failing to sign the trading agreement they had with George, they would have eventually found themselves with the brute force of King George’s army breaking havoc in their borders, and gods know they can’t afford an open war with such a rich and military oriented kingdom as George’s. If Leopold fails to see that for himself, though, then Regina just doesn’t have it in her to explain the circumstances to him, particularly if he’s going to open his speech by suggesting that she’s some sort of ill-intentioned harlot. He’s probably not even that mad at her for taking charge of political discussions, but rather for imbibing her tactics with coquettish insinuations and a clear display of her body. He makes her so sick sometimes that she feels like giving up on her long term plans completely and simply crushing that old and wrinkled heart of his.

“My queen,” he begins again, his tone smoother and more contained this time, betraying, along with the use of his preferred endearment for her, how he’s already starting to be dispirited. “All of those men may think that you’re willing to be unfaithful to me, and I so love you that–”

“Oh please, Leopold, we are not in public; stop pretending that this ruse of ours is an actual marriage.”

“But my q–”

“I am nothing of yours! Much less _your queen._ ”

Leopold has no answer for her other than to tighten his clenched fists. Regina can tell that he wants to reach out for her, but whether her spell is keeping him still or he simply refuses to touch her she doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter much, not when they’re suddenly interrupted by Snow entering the tent, big smile turning confused when she looks at their stiff stances.

“Is something the matter?” she questions, soft and maybe even a little wary.

Leopold sags immediately, looking away from Regina and very obviously wanting to reassure his daughter as fast as possible. Knowing him, he’ll spout some nonsense to prove what a loving couple they are and how Snow shouldn’t worry about them, and Regina’s blood boils at the thought. She’s tired of the lies, and feeling incensed and constantly betrayed, she doesn’t allow Leopold the relief of keeping his daughter unaware of his true self.

“The matter is that your father is being an unreasonable fool,” she states, not holding back a smirk when Snow gasps and brings a hand up to her chest, the perfect picture of an offended princess so accurately drawn that Regina is automatically delighted. “Not that it is something new, of course.”

“Regina!” Snow exclaims, more bewildered than accusing, her eyes big as saucers.

Regina merely rolls her eyes when both Leopold and Snow look at her as if she’s sprouted a second head. Never before has she seen any resemblance between them, Snow’s beauty always reminding her of the still hanging portraits of Queen Eva, but with that dumb expression on her face, she’s very obviously her father’s daughter. Regina groans at the thought, and with a dismissive hand, chooses to close the conversation before she has to bite her tongue not to say more words that they will inevitably find offensive.

“I am going for a stroll,” she announces, immediately trudging her way outside with determined steps.

Behind her, Snow exclaims, “Regina, it’s dark outside!”

She doesn’t grant an answer, but rather just keeps walking, immersing herself into the woods surrounding their camp without paying much attention to directions. She just walks, her steps steady and hard, her knees coming up high before moving down, like a little girl throwing the worst of tantrums. The way Leopold scolds her, she may as well be. She grunts as she thinks of his disruptive presence and his growing possessiveness, of that doltish face of his that manages to make her feel like property. She’d come out of their little trip to George’s palace content with her own success, and of course Leopold would manage to break the spell all too soon and remind her of her true reality. He will probably throw her into her bedchambers for a few days the minute they get back, she has no doubt.

Eventually, Regina stops her lumbering walk and changes it for a more temperate sort of stroll that takes her all the way to the edge of a lake, dark water still in the breezeless night. She stops before it, and allows herself to smell the earthy scent of pines and grass around her, along with the humid hue of the air. She sinks to her knees, touching the ground with a quiet _oof_ and leaning forward, her hands falling against the dirt and curling there, the soil beneath the grass cool as it stains her fingers. She’s infinitely tired, and for a second, she wishes she could stay right where she is for all eternity, kneeling on the cold ground, rooted to the earth in a way that makes her feel more tangible than she remembers feeling in a very long time. Her body sinks forward, her shoulders dropping tiredly and her head angling down, as if all it wants is for her is to lie down and rest. She hasn’t had a peaceful sleep in a very long time.

It’s a while before she shakes herself out of her stupor, but rather than go back to the camp, she looks before her at the quiet lake, waters so unmoving that it’s almost eerie. The moon isn’t quite full tonight, so the pale light it casts is poor, giving the water a near supernatural feeling to it, as if it’s simply waiting to claim a willing victim. It might not be such a terrible death, to drown in cold, clean water. Regina chuckles at the thought, but before she knows what she’s doing, she finds herself unfastening her clothes and dropping them to the ground, where they fall heavily and with a thud. She’s grateful that she chose to wear nothing but riding pants and a soft blouse over her corset, since it all comes out rather fast and easy, not allowing her time to think this through. She stands, naked feet grounded on the wet grass, nipples hard and skin bristled when the coldness of the night air touches her. It wakes her up somehow, a chill running up her spine making her aware enough to remember that the camp is not that far away, and that Leopold will have probably sent his guards looking for her. With a wave of her hand, she casts a cloaking spell around the lake, and then steps her way into the water.

She gasps when her feet first touch the water, colder than she had expected it to be. She’s not particularly fond of the chilliness, and is usually very prickly about her bath water being as heated up as possible, but tonight she dismisses such thoughts and wades into the lake. The wet soil beneath the sole of her feet feels funny, almost ticklish, so she takes a quick and sharp intake of breath and throws herself entirely inside, until she’s swimming rather than standing. She mutters a soft string of _coldcoldcoldcold_ under her breath, but lets the water conquer her until she’s completely submerged under it, eyes closed against the silky feeling around her. She comes out gulping a big breath of air, her loose and wet hair heavy and trying to drag her down again. She concedes, and repeats the motion a few times until her skin doesn’t feel as if it’s being prickled by frosty needles. Unbidden, she laughs.

The touch of the water, once the initial shock of the cold is gone, is smooth and comforting against her skin. She’s in what she hopes is the last day of her monthly bleeding, and feeling her limbs heavy, her breasts painfully full and her insides cramping up while having to put up with a whole day journey trapped within a carriage with her husband and step-daughter had most certainly not helped her mood, and may be part of the reason why she’d snapped and run away not long ago. Blood between her legs never fails to make her feel just a little bit ashamed, mother’s words from her childhood coupled with how primitive she feels burdened with a body she can’t control driving her to want to disappear until everything is back to normal. The water helps, though, the cramping almost gone and the silky soft touch of the substance around her making her feel lighter.

Regina doesn’t know how much time passes, but with the cloaking spell hiding her away, she’s left alone, the quietness of the dark woods her only companion. Her only companion, that is, until she feels a flash of warm magic crawling up her spine and announcing a second presence in her temporary sanctuary before she can even see anyone. She turns around with a gasp, finding the shore with her eyes even as she puts her hands to her shoulders, crossing her arms over her naked chest as if that could somehow make her invisible. She breathes out, slow but ragged, her breath turning into white fog before her, giving the figure staring at her something of a ghostly appearance. And Maleficent may not be a ghost, but she is definitely scarier than one could ever hope to be.

“Maleficent,” she says, her voice coming out a little broken, as if her teeth were chattering.

Maleficent is not even looking at her, but rather inspecting her nails as she lounges by the shore, long legs splayed out before her and weight rested on her bent elbow. If Regina didn’t know better, she’d say that she’s laying down on a plush chair, rather than the cold ground. She looks nearly bored, much the same way she had when Regina had walked into her fortress years ago and had been prompted into lighting a fire with her then feeble magic. Silence stretches between them, Regina breathing slowly as she waits for Maleficent to say whatever it is she has come to say, but the woman before her remains quietly brooding and aloof, as if they meet in this type of situation regularly. Regina waits, though, strangely stunned by the apparition, her brain sluggish and slow and failing to react in any way, be it outrage or delight.

Maleficent finally turns her gaze towards her, slow and deliberate as she moves her hand down to the ground and her eyes shift to find Regina’s, a predator in the darkness of the forest. A sharp smile crosses her lips, and while the lack of light doesn’t allow Regina as much viewing detail as she would like, she imagines it tinted in deep red, shiny on Maleficent’s features. Maleficent’s eyes do shine, though, magic gathered behind them as they turn a catlike yellow. More than her gaze, Regina feels the magic, the taste of burnt wood permeating the roof of her mouth, and surprising warmth travelling down the skin of her arms.

“Are you going to come out of there?” Maleficent finally asks, curling a hand towards Regina and then motioning towards the earthy ground where she’s resting. Her tone is full and rich, made of promises, and her lifted eyebrow, while filled with amused mockery, feels more like a challenge than like an insult.

Regina, not one to back down when provoked, is prompted into moving immediately after Maleficent rips her gaze from hers. She swims slowly until her feet are touching wet dirt, and then she walks, water cascading down her skin as it is left uncovered. She could very easily conjure her clothes back over her body, but then that would be backing down from the unspoken dare Maleficent has given her. The night air touches her as she climbs away from the water, and her skin, used to the temperature of the lake, bristles, the hair on her arms standing on end and her flesh growing hard and taut, her brown nipples prominent on her breasts. Maleficent gives her a sly smile as she bares herself completely before her, and lets her eyes roam over Regina with purpose and without subtlety, even staring at the trickle of watery blood that Regina knows is dripping down the inside of her thigh. She says nothing, and Regina can only stand the impasse for so long before she loses her bravado. She feels both vulnerable and exposed, and while not necessarily put upon by Maleficent’s hungry look, she turns around swiftly and picks up her clothes so she can cover herself up with her back towards her admirer. She tells herself that it’s the cold what’s making her hasten her movements.

Regina pulls her riding pants on easily enough, but her corset proves to be a little more of a handful for her suddenly shaking hands. Her fingers are wrinkled from her time in the water, a little numb as well, and they slip as she tries to fasten the front buttons on the garment. The lacing proves nearly impossible, and Regina only ends up wrapping the fabric in her tight fists as she closes her eyes and forces herself to breathe out slowly, swelling her cheeks and hollowing them out as she used to do when she was a little girl and she had to face mother. The gesture clears her head the smallest bit, enough for her to go back to her task with steadier hands, but also to send her into a wild goose chase for answers to questions she doesn’t dare ask. She has no idea why Maleficent might be here, and her sudden appearance has unsettled her. It reminds her a little bit too much of Rumpelstiltskin’s dramatic entrances and penchant for disconcerting people, and the moment that thought enters her mind, she finds herself turning on the spot, undone laces falling from her hands, which immediately find their way to her hips, her stance abruptly defiant.

“Did Rumpel send you?” she questions, tone harsh and scowl marring her features.

Maleficent, still lying on the ground and looking as impossibly unimpressed as Regina has ever seen anyone appear, merely wrinkles her nose, disgust obvious in her expression. “And why would the imp send me? He has no power over me.”

Regina shrugs, not particularly sure that she believes Maleficent’s statement. There’s few magical creatures that have no dealings with the Dark One, and Regina hasn’t met one he has no power over to some extent. Even she falls under that category, as much as she wishes it weren’t true.

“It feels like his kind of ploy,” she explains, one hand drawing mindless patterns in the air as her eyes roll of their own accord. “Send someone else to do his dirty work, surprise me at my most vulnerable.”

“Vulnerable?”

Regina shrugs, one single shoulder coming up as if dismissing the confession, and the gesture prompts Maleficent to smile wickedly, as well as to finally move from her prone position. She stands up so quickly that Regina suspects the use of magic, but then moves towards her slow and deliberate, with that walk of hers that looks as if she’s dancing rather than walking. They’re not far, and it takes Maleficent no time at all to be standing before Regina, close enough that she has to tilt her head up so she can look into Maleficent’s eyes, study her smug smile. Her scent reaches Regina’s nostrils, sandalwood and sweet wine, and Regina wouldn’t be surprised if Maleficent was drunk, or high on that special potion of hers.

“No one sent me,” Maleficent tells her then, keeping her eyes fixed on Regina’s but reaching up with careful hands for the discarded laces of her corset. She tightens them up, and Regina gasps when the pull is too sharp and her breasts get squished under the garment, the top of them round and obscene above the whalebone shaping her cleavage. She stares down, watches as Maleficent’s hands, tantalizingly clad in mesh fingerless gloves, finish closing it up.

“You should know better than to cavort with the Dark One, anyway,” is the next thing out of Maleficent’s mouth. Her tone is deep but playful, and it takes Regina a moment to make out the meaning of her words. She feels hazy, and she doesn’t understand why.

Eventually, though, she huffs, feeling too much like a little girl out of her depth, and merely says, “Right.” Then, after a bit, “And I don’t _cavort,_ dear.”

Maleficent laughs, the sound vibrant and nearly tangible, more cheerful than she remembers hearing from her on their brief encounter what feels like decades ago. She’s perhaps laughing at her, but Regina finds that she doesn’t mind all that much, especially when Maleficent motions for the soft shirt clutched in Regina’s hands and simply takes it from her. Regina is so stunned by the unexpected meeting that she only manages to comply with Maleficent’s wishes and pull her arms up so she can slide the shirt down and over Regina’s frame. The material is soft and it immediately sticks to the still wet skin of Regina’s arms and shoulders, failing to do a great job at covering her up. Regina doesn’t truly mind, even less when Maleficent reaches around her to pull her heavy hair out from the back of the shirt and lets it rest over Regina’s shoulders. It’s probably frizzing up terribly around her forehead already, and she wonders why Maleficent is looking at her as if she could eat her up when she’s probably at her least attractive.

“What are you doing here, then?” Regina finally questions, and her voice comes out unwittingly hoarse. Her heart is beating awfully wildly inside her chest, and Regina needs Maleficent to clue her in into whatever it is that’s going on inside her head.

Maleficent, of course, doesn’t collaborate, instead keeping busy by seemingly inspecting Regina’s face. Rather than keeping her eyes fixed on Regina’s, she’s roaming her features, her gaze moving swiftly from Regina’s cheeks to her lips and jaw, travelling down her collarbones and cleavage to then come up again. Just when Regina is about to snap and demand and answer, though, Maleficent reaches up, and curling her hand close to Regina’s cheek, rests the pad of her thumb on the corner of her lips, shutting up whatever complain Regina may have been formulating, and instead making her gasp. Maleficent’s smile is knowing and cunning, and only turns more predator-like and primitive as the rest of her fingers come to settle at Regina’s cheek, and then proceed to travel downwards. Her hand, ever so soft in her caress, moves down the skin of Regina’s neck, almost ticklish, and then traces the open collar of her shirt, coming to finally rest of the rounded curve of Regina’s breasts, now heaving unsteadily over her constricting corset.

“I was feeling so bored,” Maleficent tells her, now finally looking back into her eyes, “and I thought to myself, why not visit an old friend?”

Regina is mesmerized by Maleficent’s gaze, wondering how this woman could have ever possibly been in denial about the fact that she’s part animal. She’s looking at Regina as if she were prey, and Regina wishes she had it in her not to be a willing one. Even through her cloudy senses, though, Regina reacts to Maleficent’s statement the only way she knows how, with derision and doubt.

“Friends?” she sneers. “We met once for a few hours, Mal, most of which you spent berating me.”

“We had our fun though, didn’t we? Terrorizing soldiers, burning them up, putting girls to sleep…”

Regina snorts, unladylike and entirely too nervous. Maleficent’s fingers resting on her cleavage are burning her up, and distracting her too much for her to be coherent. “It’s been years,” she protests, weakly.

Maleficent, using her free hand to trace disdainful circles in the air, says, “Time runs little different for dragons; forgive me?” She offers Regina a pout so reminiscent of the ones she herself uses to get her way when speaking to noblemen that it flares her up and makes her shake herself away from Maleficent’s touch and take a step back, suddenly maddened. She’s tired of playing games, and she won’t do it for Maleficent.

“There is nothing to forgive, dear,” she says, sneer on her face but arms coming around herself once again, as if she was still naked. “Now, is there anything else you want, or were you simply planning on disrupting my peace?”

Maleficent is so fast in her movements then than Regina is left breathless, and before she can wrap her head around the how of it all, Maleficent is on her again, even closer than before. She reaches up and forward for Regina, her fingers grasping her chin in a tight grip and forcing her to look up. She looks fierce and powerful, the anger flaring from her more dragon than human, and Regina reacts mindlessly and reaches out for Maleficent, holding onto her forearms as if to push her away, but only managing to dig her fingers hard on the rough fabric of her dress. They breathe against each other, Regina’s heart beating wildly all the while, her breathing ragged and stunned, tension filling up the quiet night air around them. For a moment, Regina doesn’t know whether Maleficent means to attack her or to do something completely opposite, but when the woman before her shifts her savage expression for something that resembles an amused smile, she finds herself lost for words. Maleficent’s smile is predatory, nonetheless, and as she leans closer, Regina wonders if she’s about to be kissed. Then, when nothing of the sort happens, she wonders whether she would have wanted it or not.

With Regina’s face still gripped tightly in her hand, Maleficent laughs and forces Regina’s head into a dizzying shake before she lets go completely. Almost immediately, as if she’s discovered that if she moves fast enough she will keep Regina entirely too confused to react, she breaches the small distance that separates them and leans her forehead softly against Regina’s. The touch is surprisingly intimate, leaving them impossibly close and seemingly hidden away from the world around them, even more so when Maleficent’s loose hair covers Regina’s view of the outside, falling curtain like around her face. Regina breathes in slowly, the scent of wine once again reaching her nostrils and thoughtlessly, parts her lips in a silent request.

In the small space left between them, Maleficent whispers, “Be a good girl and pay me a visit sometime.”

And just like that, Maleficent is gone, smoke and crows invading Regina’s silence as she disappears the same way she showed up, all too suddenly. Regina is left alone in the lake shore, unsure of what just happened but with her body altered, her skin tingling where Maleficent had touched her and her lips still open and waiting for something that hasn’t come to pass. She feels flushed, and when she brings her hands up to warm cheeks, she realizes that she must be blushing terribly. It takes her a moment to react and to recuperate herself from the encounter, but when she finally does so, is just so she can groan into the quietness and stomp her foot harshly on the ground. _What an insufferable woman,_ she thinks, even while she puts her own hands to her chest, where her heart and skin seem to be conspiring against her and forcing her to remember the odd caress of barely there fingers.

Eventually, though, Regina huffs and with sharp movements rearranges her clothes before she puts down the cloaking spell around the lake and begins making her way back towards the camp. Leopold’s knights find her before she reaches her destination, and just this once, she doesn’t even put up a token protest, and simply allows them to guide her back into her tent, where she chooses to ignore Leopold’s whining about her inappropriate behavior. Seeing himself so easily dismissed, the king is quick to leave her, and so Regina is left alone to finally sleep. Her cramped belly and tired back thank her for finally letting herself rest, and as she drifts off to sleep, her senses seem more than content to be filled with the memory of sweet smelling wine and bold yet careful caresses.

 

* * *

 

Time always seems to stand still in the palace, and so before Regina realizes it, she’s busy preparing the now mandatory celebrations for Snow’s seventeenth birthday. Regina takes the task as the duty that it is, but soon realizes that there’s nothing of last year’s joy in the preparation. Snow’s sixteenth birthday had been an opportunity to keep her hands and mind busy, but now that she’s more interested in handling the political business of the kingdom, it seems stupid to her that she has to pay attention to innocuous entertainment for the court. She does what she must, though, if she chooses to lean more heavily on Snow’s willing help.

Her job within the council isn’t quite done yet, and so she still needs to steal time to keep up her work behind the scenes. Most members of the council know that whatever benefits came from their new dealings with King George have her signature behind them, but that doesn’t mean that they’re particularly keen to concede that she is actually the ruler that the kingdom needs. However, it does seem as if Leopold is giving up the fight, seemingly content to give into the council’s advice, and therefore Regina’s, without too much of a fuss. He’s old, tired and weak spirited, and he’s not about to change now, not as long as the kingdom keeps seemingly running itself and he can partake in his favorite activities for longer periods of time. The king is a man of simple tastes, and Regina’s learned that what he truly enjoys is riding his carriage to the coast lines near the palace, and taking long walks down the beach. Regina can do nothing but appreciate the free reign Leopold’s lacking attitude affords her, as well as the fact that he spends more and more time far away from her.

Busy with her political ambitions and duties, and convincing herself that her quest for power is her one and only priority, Regina can almost ignore the memory of Maleficent’s request and of the breathless excitement her closeness had fired up within her. It’s so easy to forget the outside world, after all, when all she has around her is court life and a persistent step-daughter to teach and put up with, that she manages to force herself into forgetfulness. And she knows that, perhaps, she’s stalling, postponing the inevitable, but for now, it seems to do the trick. Or so she tells herself.

When she finds herself accosted by a necessity for honesty, though, she admits to herself that Maleficent’s visit has rattled her to the core. She inevitably blushes when she thinks about her, tall and beautiful, tantalizing as she moved her hands over Regina’s skin with a familiarity that shouldn’t have been there. She wonders just how many women Maleficent has touched like that, and whether she’s reading entirely too much into a situation that was meant to unsettle her, or if Maleficent truly had intended for her caresses to be a seduction of sorts. Regina has certainly not considered the idea of a woman in her bed before, even if she’s heard enough rumors from the court, both nobles and servants, to know that such a thing is not particularly unusual. The truth is, though, that Regina hasn’t had any particular sensual thoughts for men, either. She’d both loved and wanted Daniel with everything in her, heart, body and soul, but she can’t say she has felt even a smidgeon of superficial attraction for any other person since then. She has, of course, thought of taking lovers before, if only to spite Leopold and his absurd jealousy, but the thought of hands upon her body after the wreckage the king had left behind had only ever managed to make disgust bloom in her chest.

There’s no denying Maleficent’s allure, though, or the pull she has on Regina’s senses. Not truly understanding why, Regina finds herself inspecting her own body in a way she hasn’t done for years, looking at herself in her full length mirror while standing naked before it, devoid of fabrics and paints, clean of masks and tricks. She has avoided such scrutiny for a long time now, her mirrors becoming windows into other people’s lives rather than reflections of her own. She knows there’s fear laced in her lack of exploration, in her persistent ignorance of her naked skin. Now, though, she can’t help but look and touch, closely and profoundly, recovering the awareness of a body that had once known how to feel pleasure. The truth is that her body hasn’t felt hers for a very long time, perhaps for as long as she has memory; it had been mother’s to control, Leopold’s to use, and then it had belonged to everyone Regina had wished to trick into seeing her in a certain light. Her flesh and bones have been shield, armor and weapon against the world around her, and only truly hers when she’d freely shared her youth and enthusiasm with Daniel.

Looking at herself these days, reveals that she’s too skinny. She’s always liked herself with a bit more weight on her bones, and even Daniel had always said that he wanted her plump and happy, big in ways that spoke of nothing but peace and contentment. But then Daniel had always been filled up to the brim with maybes and could have been's, hopes that hurt to think about. She looks haggard now, instead, her whole demeanor tired when she doesn’t force herself to stand tall, and her skin entirely too pale for her tastes. Her beauty might be enough to fool men and women alike, but her reflection speaks to her of her own negligence, of how she’s not going outside enough for her skin to feel breeze and sun burning it up into a nicer olive color, of how little food she forces herself to swallow. The scar on her shoulder she healed the moment Rumpelstiltskin began teaching her healing magic, but she’d refused to get rid of the almost invisible pale line marring the skin of her belly, and the reminder of her losses seems to her as entirely too prominent against her unhealthy looking skin.

Once confronted with her reality though, Regina can’t help but keep looking, and the longer she does, the more she begins to eat. She knows she can’t fill herself up just by overindulging, but she still finds herself mindlessly asking for flavorful and spicy meals that may perhaps just awaken her hungry senses. She’d once told Daniel that all she wanted was to eat when she was hungry, and she wishes she could force herself to do just that.

Both father and her lady’s maid watch her efforts with curiosity and wariness, obviously surprised by her sudden insistence on full tables when they have spent the past year forcing her to at least keep a habit of three meals a day, even if said meals were nothing but a piece of fruit. It has been perhaps their one and only thing in common, and one front where they have always stood united despite father’s obvious dislike for her choice of the quiet woman. He’s been wary of her since Regina brought her under her employ, perhaps seeing in her the same resemblance to mother Regina had spied the moment she’d set eyes on her, but in this one aspect he’d began to depend on the woman’s stronger character, and on how she clearly could stand even the worst of Regina’s tantrums without being rattled in the least.

Regina tries, and she tries resiliently and insistently, putting into her eating habits the same effort and intents she puts in her ploys and duties. Her body is not someone she can fool into believing a fabricated lie, though, and her stomach has been neglected for so long now that her sudden and insistent endeavors only end up with her making herself sick, too strong food sitting heavily inside her belly. She feels sick, broken beyond repair, but she ploughs through anyway, because at this point that is the only thing she knows how to do.

“ _Cielo, tienes que parar, tienes que ir más despacio,”_ father tells her one night, his voice soft as ever, his hand rubbing small but steady circles on her back while he cradles her head on his shoulder. **(1)**

“Daddy, I don’t know how to stop anymore, I don’t want to stop anymore,” is her muted reply.

Everything comes to a head during the first night of Snow’s birthday festivities. It’s not even a ball this time, that particular kind of celebration having been reserved for the last night of the week, but Regina finds herself surrounded by people that she has to charm with fake smiles, smirks and the right kind of posturing, and she doesn’t know if she can put up with it at all tonight. Tonight she feels like she could burn this palace to the ground with everyone inside it, and she can't stand the idea of playing nice. She can feel herself loosing it, sanity slipping through her fingers and threatening her precarious balance, and so she escapes the quaint dinner with a small and harried excuse, and finds herself in a balcony that she’s used as reprieve from court members on more than one occasion.

The air is cool and crisp tonight, but not even breathing it in calms Regina’s senses. She had been doing so well as of late, had been keeping herself so very in check that now she can do nothing but be furious at her own weakness. She blames it on Maleficent, on whatever it is that she managed to awaken inside her all those weeks ago and that has her feeling all over the place. Mother had raised her to be in control, had posed herself as a perfect role model for it, for even in her fury mother had been coiled tight, cold and stern and terrifying in her absolute restraint. Regina’s control comes from effort and constant starvation, though, and when she loses it simply spills everywhere, like a broken dam, unstoppable and beyond repair. Tonight, she feels as if all the work she’s been putting into building walls may prove to be fruitless.

Cold doesn’t calm her, but maybe pain will, so she pushes her thumb into her opposite palm, pressing hard on the juncture between thumb and forefinger, the familiar ache pulling her into the here and now. If she doesn’t do something, she’ll either collapse or let her anger reign her, so with firm determination in mind she closes her eyes and pictures Maleficent’s castle in her mind’s eye, searching for the memories of it that are not as buried as Regina wished they were. Maleficent has been the one to cause her unrest, so she must be the one to put a solution to it. With a sharp intake of breath, she focuses on the image in her head, and before she can consciously realize it, she feels the pull of magic and vanishes from the spot, leaving nothing but a cloud of purple smoke behind.

 

* * *

 

Regina appears inside Maleficent’s fortress with a sigh, the sense of vertigo that comes with magical transportation making her sway on the spot for a brief second.

“So you have been practicing; that was almost impressive.” Maleficent’s voice cuts the silence, and it feels to Regina as if it’s booming and overpowering, even if not intended as such. Regina twists her mouth into what she hopes is a sneer, but before she can say anything, Maleficent commands, “Sit. Drink.”

Regina looks at her then, lounging on a big eared and cushiony chair, goblet in hand and eyes at half mast, more interested in the fire before her than in Regina. At least this time there’s a fire, she muses, not that it manages to make the room all that comfortable anyway. It’s just like Regina remembers it, dark and dank, stuffy even when the big windows around the chamber probably haven’t been properly closed in years, making it drafty. It’s pure abandoned decadence, and Regina sniffs the air haughtily before she does as she’s told and finds herself swishing her way to a leather and comfortable looking couch. She sits gingerly, back straight and hands resting on her lap, impossibly fidgety. She’s all over the place, mind racy and excited but limbs tired and tense, and she’s both hungry and feels as if the taste of food may make her sick.

“Heavens, girl, I said _sit._ ”

Regina frowns, looking at Maleficent’s wide sprawl with a judgmental eyebrow. Then, she passes judgment on herself, ladylike posture and clad in a sweet looking gown pattered with light yellow roses. She’d hated the fabric, but Snow had insisted on her getting a dress made from it and she’d complied just to quiet the girl’s insistence, even when she knows the color washes her out and makes her look sickly and young. She feels itchy inside it, and she wants to rip it away and cover herself in soft blue velvet, or dark red silk. Still, she’s not about to concede Maleficent’s point, so she merely motions towards her with a curling hand as she speaks.

“I _am_ sitting, dear; you are slouching.” Then, with a wrinkle of her nose, “How pedestrian.”

Maleficent laughs, amused and bitter at the same time, and then says, “Drink, then.”

“I don’t truly like the taste of alcohol.” Which is not entirely true, but Regina’s been feeling unhinged for weeks, and tonight she wishes to be contrary.

Maleficent stares at her for a second, something that may just be irritation clouding her gaze. Maybe she’s about to force Regina out of her fortress, and perhaps that will be enough for Regina to put their encounters behind her and go back to her plans of controlling the kingdom without being constantly assaulted by the sight of a body that she finds inadequate for herself, but useful as a weapon against others. Maleficent does nothing of the sort though, and instead moves in that way that makes Regina feel dizzy, going from utterly languid to brisk and purposeful so fast that she finds herself gasping when Maleficent is suddenly before her, invading her senses and her space. She smells of a foreign spice tonight, but Regina is barely given time to register the thought, not when Maleficent’s next move is to bring a hand to the back of Regina’s head, forcing her fingers into her tightly coiled hair, and _pull._ Regina grunts, surprised yet angry, but her complaints get literally drowned when Maleficent presses a goblet against her lips and cants it, forcing the liquid into Regina’s mouth. It’s too much too fast, the taste of wine tangy and strong against her lips, chocking her up even as it spills down the corners of her mouth and all the way to her jaw. She gags, coughs as the liquid clogs up her throat, and then Maleficent finally releases her, laughing at her spitting out deep red wine onto the lap of her dress.

Regina turns sharply to look at her, fury in her features as she finally manages to stop coughing. Her throat feels raw after the rough treatment, but Maleficent looks unfazed despite her previous forcefulness, aloof as she drops all her weight next to Regina, lethargic once again. She looks sullen but breathtaking, and the lackadaisical texture of her movements makes Regina deflate, anger forgotten as it gives way to pure exhaustation.

“I still don’t like the taste,” she says, and her voice is hoarse and hurts as it comes out.

That makes Maleficent laugh, the sound jagged and impossibly alluring. She looks at Regina with something of a twinkle on her eye, a shadow of playful youth crossing her features as she conjures up a bottle into her hands and proceeds to pour a plentiful amount on a new ornate goblet. She passes it to Regina, and waits until she’s taken it, fingers brushing absent-mindedly, before she says anything.

“Sweet wine from the Southern Isles; you’ll like it.” With a shrug, she continues, “I burnt a wagon full of soldiers for it, so you better enjoy it, girl.”

“Don’t call me that. I’m a queen, not a girl.”

There’s no reply, but then again, Regina doesn’t expect one. She stares at the full cup before her, and takes a sip so small that Maleficent rolls her eyes. Regina half expects her to push the goblet into her mouth again, so she takes a longer gulp if only just to stop her. She tells herself, adamantly, that it’s not to please her. The taste this time is sweet and cool, pleasant. Regina’s not much of a drinker, alcohol being Leopold’s choice of poison for putting up with their nights together, but she does enjoy the occasional drink. Maleficent clearly enjoys it more than just occasionally, and Regina is beginning to suspect that drunkenness is a sort of permanent state for her.

The silence is heavy between them, and Regina only breaks it when Maleficent reaches for her and presses her open-palmed hand to her cheek. Her skin is cold and dry, a balm against Regina’s heated up face, and she realizes that she’s impossibly attracted to this woman. She doesn’t understand it, because there has only been Daniel before, and their passion was brought on slowly as they got to know each other, as they pushed and pulled until they reached an understanding under an apple tree and surrounded by soft breeze. She doesn’t know Maleficent, knows nothing about her other than what she’s red on books and what little she was shown all those years ago, and it scares her that she feels such a pull towards the intoxicating woman. She knows now that she came here to get into bed with her, if that is indeed what Maleficent is offering, and she’s trembling just at the idea of it all. Her body has been nothing but a burial ground for years, and she doesn’t know if she can bear someone’s touch. It may just scorch her to death, or it may leave her insane and wanting.

“Come here,” Maleficent tells her, her thumb now a bold caress on her face, drawing a circle on the apple of her cheek and travelling to the corner of her mouth.

Regina, who has been fighting and rebelling against commands for what feels like a lifetime, doesn’t question Maleficent’s order, but merely leans forward and closer to her, moth to a flame. Her breathing is ragged and short, and the back of her neck feels clammy with sweat.

Maleficent looks at her with derision in her eyes, but it feels more exasperated than cruel when she mouths, “I said, _come here._ ”

She pulls from Regina then, hands at her hips and arms manhandling her weight with entirely too much ease until Regina is perched on her lap, legs half trapped among the layers of her skirt even as her knees rest on the couch on either side of Maleficent. She’s preternaturally strong, but when her hands rest on Regina’s sides they’re careful and soft, a barely there touch that Regina wishes she could feel on her skin, rather than above whalebone and taffeta. Regina exhales harshly once she’s allowed to be still again, and she sags forward, resting both her palms on Maleficent’s shoulders – the fabric there is old and rough, clearly an exquisite but worn down remnant of better times, and Regina wants it gone.

She feels her chest heaving, fast and surprised, and even as she feels herself swaying – towards or away from Maleficent she’s not sure – she still finds it in herself to pose a protest. “I am starting to discern that simply asking is not one of your talents, dear.”

Maleficent gives her a wicked smile, amusement written in her features. She says nothing, though, but instead moves her hands to where Regina is resting her own on her shoulders, and trails them slowly up her naked arms, all the way to her collarbones and then back down. Her touch tingles. It’s merely the tip of her fingers travelling up and down slowly, but it makes Regina shiver, fear and anticipation uncoiling somewhere behind her breastbone; she hasn’t been touched properly in so very long.

“Have you ever had a lover?” Maleficent asks her, head tilting to the side curiously and hair spilling carelessly over her left shoulder and Regina’s hand. “Other than the king?”

Regina growls, her face fighting itself in between a frown and a disgusted grimace. Her fingers tense on Maleficent’s shoulders, digging in hard, and her tone is nothing but unforgiving when she states, “Don’t ever call that man my lover.”

Maleficent says nothing, as if she’s giving her time to come back from her stab of sudden fury, but she keeps a steady movement up and down her arms. It’s both soothing and disconcerting, too soft to awaken Regina’s senses beyond a tingling sensation, but strong enough that it’s hard to focus on anything else.

Regina’s wearing Daniel’s ring today, the long chain around her neck and the small round shape of it hidden in her cleavage, right between her breasts. Regina reaches for it before she speaks, grasping both sides of the chain in a fisted hand; if she were to pull a little tighter, she could choke herself with it.

“There was someone,” she says, whisper soft and swallowing hard once the words are out there, a confession that she’s never made before and that she’s always kept close to her heart as her biggest secret. Let them all believe that she’s never known true passion, while her mind and body keep her memories guarded for themselves.

Maleficent hums appreciatively, and when her hands move, Regina thinks she’s going for the necklace. Regina pulls from it unconsciously, not wanting it to be touched or examined, but her effort proves worthless when Maleficent goes for her cleavage instead. Her sudden movements should not surprise Regina by now, but she can’t help but gasp when Maleficent hooks her fingers into the top of her sleeveless corset, nails carelessly scratching and the top of her breasts, and pulls from the fabric that is encasing Regina. The tearing sound is disconcerting in the mostly silent room, but Regina barely hears it when she feels as if all her blood is rushing to her ears as the fabric comes undone around her, buttons, lace and whalebone giving easily into the pull of Maleficent’s strength. The rip goes all the way from the top of the dress to its midsection and Regina’s breasts spill forward as they’re freed from their prison so carelessly. Her dress is ruined now, but when Regina looks down at the tear in the fabric all she sees is her own skin on display, brown nipples growing hard just by being exposed to the humid air of the room. Daniel’s ring, dangling in between them, looks out of place.

Maleficent just looks at her then, eyes almost creating a tangible touch as she stares at the newly exposed skin. Will she think her skinny, too pale, too scarred? Her gaze speaks of nothing but hunger, and it makes Regina lick her lips in anticipation, leave her mouth parted in a silent invitation. Before Maleficent moves, though, Regina takes off Daniel’s ring, sliding the chain over her neck and immediately conjuring it back into her bedchambers at the palace and into the secret box she hides in the false bottom of her bedside table. There’s no place for Daniel here tonight.

The skin of Regina’s torso is marred by angry red streaks, where the whalebone of the corset had been digging into her flesh for hours, and Maleficent goes for those first, tracing the straight lines from her belly up to the underside of her breasts. The skin is tender yet, having only just been relieved from the pressure and Regina draws her breath in sharply. Maleficent is still touching her with just the pad of her fingers though, and Regina has a feeling that she could be all slow languidness coupled with sudden movements all night long if she lets her. She has half a mind to do just that, let the clearly more experienced woman try to coax some feeling out of her skin, but her breathing is getting ragged and fast, and she needs more, and she needs it now.

Never one for patience, Regina presses her sweaty palms to Maleficent’s cheeks, cupping her face until they’re looking at each other, eye to eye. Her eyes are impossibly blue, and her lips, closed in a soft mockery of a smile, a light red that glistens in the candlelight. Regina hasn’t been kissed in far too long, Leopold not having even tried to get close to her lips after the one single press of his own to the corner of her mouth during their wedding ceremony, and more than any other thing Regina wants to remember what that connection feels like. She sways forward unceremoniously, moving her hands into Maleficent’s thick hair and holding her in place as she presses their lips together, the most chaste of locks lasting but a second before Maleficent is parting her mouth under Regina’s and giving into the wet slip and slide of their lips and tongues. The taste of her is unfamiliar and heady, rough in every way it needs to be to shake Regina’s dormant spirit.

Maleficent trails her hands inside the torn fabric barely hanging from her torso, and digging blunt nails at Regina’s shoulder blades, she drags her hands down, no doubt leaving behind a trail of red, angry lines. Regina mewls into her mouth, fantastically aware of her body, of every point of contact between her and Maleficent. Her hands are sort of exquisite, soft, big and dry, her skin what feels like perpetually cold, and she soothes the ache of her scratching massaging comforting palms up Regina’s back, pulling her closer as she does so. Regina feels her chest meet Maleficent’s, the roundness of a second pair of breasts foreign but pleasant. There are too many clothes, though, Maleficent’s dress which seems like an unconquerable obstacle between them and the torn shreds of Regina’s corset now digging uncomfortably into her skin. Despite that, Regina doesn’t know if she’s willing to part from Maleficent’s mouth long enough to shed their clothes. Her lips feel raw and tender from the manic way they’re kissing each other, and she never wants it to stop.

It’s Maleficent’s hand on her breast what makes her break away, a gasp leaving her open mouth and a loud popping sound coming from the parting of their lips. Maleficent’s grip on her is nearly bruising, nails digging into the contours of her breast for a harsh moment before she’s kneading at Regina’s flesh with a softer stroke, thumb catching her nipple with purpose.

Regina barely has time to enjoy the touch, though, since the next thing she knows Maleficent is putting a strong arm around her waist and lifting them both as she surges forward and then down, the both of them landing on the cold floor in a flurry of fabric and awkward limbs. Regina yelps when her head and back meet the hard stone floor beneath her, and she looks at Maleficent, now hovering above her with a grin, and scowls.

“Are you trying to kill me?” she questions, a growl following her words.

Maleficent, impudent smile on her features and hand already busy trying to get rid of the shreds of Regina’s dress, merely replies, “There are worst ways to go, I’m sure.”

Regina growls again, but soon enough is not because of Maleficent’s words, but because her mouth is on her, wading her way over Regina’s naked skin. Maleficent bites at her collarbone and then soothes the ache, and soon she’s making a trek downwards in that same fashion, hurting and appeasing her skin with plump lips and a smart, wet tongue. Regina sighs and grunts in equal measure, the trail of skin that Maleficent touches burning up as if feverish, waking up with every rough touch. She closes her eyes, gives into it and arches into Maleficent’s touch when her tongue reaches a nipple, her caresses purposeful and wild, insistent.

Regina’s breathing hard, the sound of her intakes of air so harsh against her own ears. She feels out of control, though, her body having been neglected for so long and Maleficent’s touch so inebriating on her skin. She’d been afraid that being caressed again would only bring back memories, of Daniel’s touch now long gone, or worse, of the looming figure of an unwanted king above her, but Maleficent is too intoxicating for Regina to possibly think about anyone else when her nails are writing a new path down her sides, and when her teeth and tongue are bringing sensation back to every inch of her skin. Regina wants more, though, she wants to feel all of Maleficent, to lay her eyes upon a form so foreign and so alluring to her, and so she shakes herself from the pleasurable stupor that Maleficent’s tongue on her nipples has put her into and searches for Maleficent blindly with both her hands. She buries them in her hair, thick and rich between her fingers, and then trails them down and around her searching for buttons, lace, anything that will make that silly dress of hers go away. She finds nothing, her limbs heavy and her mind dizzy with the kisses Maleficent is now pressing on her stomach, and she ends up pulling from fabric with a grunt. It proves fruitless, her strength not equaling Maleficent’s in the least and making it impossible for her to tear the fabric away.

Maleficent laughs against her, the sound sending ripples of warmth up the skin of Regina’s torso, and when that doesn’t deter Regina’s efforts, she finds Regina’s hands with her own and pulls until she has them pinned against the floor, easily immobilizing her there. Regina pouts when she’s left without the possibility of movement, and as Maleficent stays poised above her, she thinks she should perhaps be scared or anxious at being so clearly overpowered. She isn't, though, not when Maleficent is looking at her with such lust etched in blackened eyes, with such playful mirth written in her smile.

“Calm down,” Maleficent tells her, “we’re not waging war.”

Regina huffs, promptly saying, “You could have fooled me, dear.” She has no doubt, after all, that she will be sporting bruises in no time that will bear the shape of Maleficent’s teeth and hands.

As Maleficent moves over her again, her lips now finding the valley between her breasts and surprising Regina with how sensitive her skin is in such an unexplored place, it occurs to Regina that she has methods easier than brute force to get her wishes and rid Maleficent of her clothing. She must be truly gone when she hasn’t thought once about magic before, even when the hum of her own and the shimmering touch of Maleficent’s is so very obviously permeating the air around them. Nevertheless, once she actually remembers her own power and with a flick of still trapped hands, a cloud of plum smoke covers Maleficent and once it’s gone, so is every piece of clothing on her body. Maleficent lifts her head to look straight into her eyes, questioning eyebrow meeting Regina’s smug smile.

“I see you learnt more than a few tricks.”

Maleficent’s answer to Regina’s amused laugh is to grasp onto her hair and pull sharply, managing to effectively stop the throaty sound and turn it into an appreciative growl. She wouldn’t have taken herself for one to enjoy such roughness, but her body certainly appreciates the impulsiveness and harshness of Maleficent, perhaps because she so easily couples it with sudden softness. Now, as she forces Regina to arch her head backwards, she finds her mouth with her own and kisses her, openmouthed and deep. Regina feels as if she’s being devoured, claimed by a lusty and capricious predator, and all she can do is answer in kind, kissing back with abandon as her hands finally find their way to the naked skin of Maleficent’s spine.

Their kiss is long and breathy, sloppy as they come apart and together over and over again, their breaths ragged and hot. It’s so distracting to Regina’s senses that she barely registers Maleficent pulling and tearing at the remnants of her dress until it’s finally discarded and thrown away. Regina looks at the torn fabric now ripped from her naked body, the ugly expensive thing ruined beyond repair, and she laughs with giddiness she’s so glad of being rid of it.

Next thing she knows, Maleficent is trailing a smart hand down her body, past her bellybutton and over the unruly, dark hair at the apex of her thighs and right between her legs. Her fingers are soft and teasing, the pads of them a barely there touch on Regina’s folds, but enough to make Regina’s body shiver with sensation, her mouth part in a silent moan. Goodness, but she’s wet, so very wet when she’d thought she would be nothing but dry and cold pain. She parts her thighs without prompting, legs spreading easily when Maleficent’s fingers tread carefully on the outside of her sex, her touch soft but sure, her teasing a silent promise. Regina feels her own fingers tighten where they’re resting on Maleficent’s back, tense and then release as each stroke of Maleficent’s hand on her becomes more and more pleasurable. Maleficent is touching her with the pad of her fingers, but also with her knuckles and the heel of her hand, almost distracted and uneven when Regina suspects her touches are anything but.

When Maleficent teases a finger inside her, Regina cries out, a pleading moan escaping her. “Oh, please, I–” she mouths, incoherent. She doesn’t know what she’s asking for, what it is that she wants. All she knows is that she _wants_ and that’s enough to make her body shiver with anticipation.

Maleficent hums, the sound rich and pleasant, obviously delighted. She murmurs something that sounds like _so responsive_ but Regina barely registers it when her mouth finds her throat and her finger begins pulling in and out of her in a slow, hazy rhythm. Maleficent’s kisses aren’t rough anymore, but merely teasing pecks all over the skin she can reach, Regina’s collarbones, neck, the shell of her ear, her jaw, her cheek, her parted lips and her eyes when they’re closed. It’s sweet, reverent, and it lights up all of Regina’s skin, already fraught with sensation from the pull of the now two fingers Maleficent has inside her, twirling, twisting and pushing in ways that have Regina rolling her hips mindlessly to try and match the rhythm.

Peaking pleasure comes and goes in waves, pulling all of Regina’s focus away as she burns up, the center of her fire firmly settled right between her legs, where Maleficent’s hand is now doing something that feels too marvelous to explain with words. She’s clammy with sweat, tired and searching for the inevitable end while at the same time wishing this feeling could last forever, trembling anticipation crawling over every inch of her skin. She has her feet firmly planted on the floor now, though, granting her hips leverage to follow Maleficent’s talented fingers, and her hands are firmly buried in Maleficent’s thick locks in a wild attempt at keeping her right where she is, with her mouth dancing in between her breasts, at times licking at the round flesh absentmindedly and at times biting carefully at pert nipples.

It seems impossible to her, almost, that she still has so much pleasure trapped inside her, but the curling of her toes and the heated trails of shivering bliss cursing all through her body are proof enough that she’s still alive, and that her body is willing and ready to be pampered and thoroughly loved. She’s moaning mindlessly at the onslaught of sensation, sure that nobody should go so long without being touched properly, and she’s so gone that she doesn’t even notice the climbing of her voice that matches the heightening of her pleasure. When her climax hits her she’s silent though, body taut for a second before she’s trembling with her release, and her voice trapped somewhere in her throat. When it finally comes back to her, all she manages is a breathy _oh._

Next to her, Maleficent is humming, her face now travelling back to Regina’s slowly, nuzzling here and there in her trek upwards.

“So pretty,” she murmurs right before she catches Regina’s lips in a demanding kiss, stealing whatever breath she has left away from her.

Their lips part ways, and then Regina feels Maleficent’s cold tongue on her cheek, tracing a slow pattern on her overheated skin. Regina reaches up for her own cheeks in an effort to try and tamp down her flush, but she finds wet skin instead. It takes her a moment to realize that what she's touching and Maleficent is licking at are her own tears. She wants to be embarrassed, finds that she should, but Maleficent just keeps touching her with so much purpose that she can’t bring herself out of her hazy stupor. Her body is still so very sensitive, and Maleficent’s fingers are still inside her, a sigh of a movement to them, as if they can’t bear to stay motionless while claiming Regina’s insides.

Regina reaches up with a shaky hand and finds Maleficent’s cheek, bringing her face up so that they’re looking into each other’s eyes. Maleficent’s are so very blue, and right now look so very wide, clouded in equal parts with mirth and delight, and even if Regina is still coming down from her high, she realizes that it’s not nearly enough. She wants so much to _touch_ now, to explore Maleficent’s beautiful skin, and to keep being touched in return. She’s hungry for this in a way she had forgotten how to be, and even with limbs that are begging for a respite she reaches up for Maleficent’s mouth and kisses her roughly.

Maleficent laughs into her mouth when Regina pushes her until she’s the one on her back, even as her fingers remain between Regina’s thighs, tantalizing and so very tempting. Regina has no doubt Maleficent is letting her maneuver her, though, having already had a taste of the true strength of the woman, but she doesn’t care, not when she’s still riding the height of her pleasure and when there’s so much she wants to do.

She breaks away from their kiss to look at Maleficent, now below her, naked breasts spilling wide and round on her chest, impossibly long legs coyly pressed together and large plains of skin. There’s a thick scar on her torso, claiming a wide patch of skin from the underside of her left breast to her bellybutton, and then following an uneven path almost all the way to her right hip. Regina touches it gingerly, fingers careful on the too pale skin. It’s old, thick and angry, and it’s the first thing she wants to kiss. She does just that, and takes Maleficent’s gasp at the action as all the encouragement she needs to keep touching. Maleficent, though, obviously not one to give up her dominance, twists the fingers that are still nestled inside Regina, dragging a surprised grunt out of her, and making her glare up at Maleficent from her newfound place between her breasts – she has a feeling it’s going to be a favorite.

With a teasing smile, Maleficent asks, “Do you even know what you’re doing, girl?”

Regina scoffs, but, spurned rather than undeterred by Maleficent’s taunt, she moves up until she can wedge a firm thigh between Maleficent’s, pulling her leg up until she can feel liquid heat against her skin. Maleficent’s growl is enough to let her know that she’s struck gold, and so it is with a smirk that she counters with, “Don’t worry, dear, I’m a quick study.”

 

* * *

 

The next year flies by, Regina’s mind and fingers so busy that it barely even registers with her. The business pertaining the kingdom, along with the occasional travels to neighboring lands fill up her time to the brim, securing her place as queen more and more with every step she takes, with every heart that crowds her mother’s vault. It’s hers now by right, the cavernous sound of beating hearts now speaking of her progress and ambition, rather than of mother’s cruelty.

It’s easier for her to keep her control these days, having the safe haven of Maleficent’s fortress to run to when she feels as if she may just kill all the inconsequential people she has to deal with on a day to day basis. In a way, Maleficent is for her now what Daniel had once been, a place for freedom and loss of control that helps her maintain an easy fluidity in a world ruled by someone else’s guidelines. There’s nothing of Daniel in Maleficent, of course, and she can hardly see their relationship as the hope inducing marvel that loving Daniel had been, but their affair does make Regina feel as if she has a place that allows her the license of doing what she wants, and being who she truly is.

Regina had needed that, needs it now more than ever, and the effect is so very clear to her that she can’t help but be thankful for the dragon witch, even at her most petulant and insulting. Her body thrives under Maleficent’s attention, and she finds herself gaining weight yet again, and watching as her skin takes on a healthier color, her cheeks recuperating a nice glow. She’s been eating better, the process painful and slow, packed with Regina’s tantrums and overwhelming urges to stuff herself full of anything that may cure her of her moments of misery. Lately, she finds herself almost enjoying the taste of food again. She has even reinstated her weekly lunches with Snow, even when she once again finds herself hating the fact that a shared table always makes her feel more at ease with herself. Snow has learnt to love father’s favorite dishes, too, and Regina struggles with herself when the girl seems so happy to sit and eat with her, half wishing that the spices of father’s land would fall ill on Snow’s stomach.

Maleficent’s touch is a permanent mark on Regina now, and she realizes very early on in their affair that the sight of Maleficent’s hands, teeth and mouth etched on her skin makes her feel good, rooted inside her body in a way that she had forgotten how the be. She had been losing herself in the fantasies of others for so long, that it’s with delight that she takes ownership of her own skin. Marred by Leopold’s unwanted hands, she had shirked with shame, but touched by wanted caresses she remembers who she is, what she wants, and how much she needs to take revenge on those who have made hurting her into a sport.

That first night with Maleficent, she’d come back to the palace as if she’d just fought a battle that had used her skin for a field. She’d looked at herself in the mirror and had found the shape of Maleficent’s teeth etched on the juncture of her neck and shoulder, a constellation of purpled marks travelling all the way from her hip to her inner thighs, the red marks of scratching nails painting her sides and back. She’d blushed at the sight, feeling conquered but not owned, and with enough energy in her to take over the world. It had certainly helped her when she’d been forced to spin a new story through Baroness Irene’s attentive ears, explaining why she’d disappeared during Snow White’s birthday bash. On the other hand, she’d felt ready to explode and reveal her true self, hungry enough to rampage through the court and sit herself on her well-earned throne, Leopold’s and Snow’s heads at her feet.

“Why don’t you just… _do that?_ ” Maleficent asks of her one day, one finger dipping absentmindedly into her goblet and then coming up to her mouth tainted in red wine so she can taste it directly from her skin.

That particular afternoon Regina is feeling impatient and incensed, and she suspects that Maleficent’s drawl of a question has only been posed because she hasn’t let herself be touched yet. Instead, she’s pacing before the bed that they barely ever manage to reach in their fiery fumbles, the train of her dress trailing behind her and almost making her trip in her haste.

“This takes subtlety and patience, dear,” Regina replies. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

And she truly doesn’t, not when Maleficent is obviously more than comfortable with burning people and whatever may be holding them inside to a crisp to get whatever is it that she desires. Why Rumpelstiltskin ever chose her as a role model for patience Regina will never understand.

Maleficent, leaning forward and with her eyes at half mast, barks a mocking, “Explain it to me, Your Majesty.”

Regina huffs, but she deflates somewhere in the middle of her fifteenth or sixteenth angry stalking of the room and ends up dropping all her weight next to Maleficent on her entirely too comfortable couch. For good measure, she steals her goblet and drinks a large swallow of her wine before she chooses to speak.

“The council and the neighboring kingdoms must support my claim once Leopold dies, otherwise they will push for Snow’s right to the throne and leave me in the sidelines, never mind that I am the one ruling the land, and not that oaf of a man,” she rambles, mouthing to Maleficent the speech she has been giving herself for years now whenever it feels as if killing mindlessly is all she needs to be free. “And I can’t kill the man myself… goodness knows they’ll try to burn me for witchcraft if they even connect his demise to me; it must be someone else.”

Maleficent laughs that throaty laugh of hers that Regina would be loath to admit that she loves, and then she leans forward and into Regina’s space, her fingers already playing with the skin revealed by her corset even as she says, “What do you need a kingdom for? Give it up, take the palace, and forget about ruling.”

Regina scoffs, making a show of pushing Maleficent’s hands away. “And then what?” she wonders in the small space between them. “Become some old witch trapped by myself in some scary fortress?” she mocks easily as she presses a harsh kiss to Maleficent’s scowling mouth. “I am a queen, dear, don’t ever forget.”

There’s a smile on Maleficent’s face, and just like every other gesture she dedicates to Regina, there’s something amused within it, as if Regina is a little girl who says the most stupid things. Regina would protest the gesture, and Maleficent’s following words of, “Shut up, Your Majesty, you are boring me to death with your politics and rules,” but then Maleficent is crawling between her legs, already practiced mouth making Regina forget what it is that they were talking about to begin with.

It’s always the same with them, a push and pull that ends with Regina feeling dizzy with how easily it changes from one emotion to the next. Maleficent certainly doesn’t care much for Regina’s talk, particularly when it pertains kingdom business, or Regina’s small but successful ploys to get her way. She doesn’t care about her secret correspondence with King George and King Midas, can’t even fake a smile for the diary Regina has been keeping for Leopold’s benefit, so his not so secret reading of it will steer him in the direction that she needs, even yawns when she speaks about how she’s convinced the Military Advisor to outfit one of the army’s battalions in Regina’s choice of black garb and have them trained as her own particular militia, along with a group of willing men from the nearby villages.

Still, Regina talks, more than she has for the past seven years of her marriage, and even perhaps before. She speaks of father, of his soothing voice and his stories, of his lack of pride that never fails to hurt her so. She spins stories of mother, of whatever little morsel of affection she can remember from her, of powerful feats that actually make Maleficent crow with delight even if they're part of Regina's worst nightmares. She doesn't talk about Daniel, but she does speak of his death, and of the revenge she will finally get once she has her hands on Snow. And she talks of Snow, too, of her future demise and her plans to ruin her - which seems to almost amuse Maleficent - but also of the way their lives are so impossibly interwoven that sometimes Regina gets overwhelmed by bitter emotions that make her question everything about herself. She spews hate about Leopold, about the feeling of his hands on her hips, holding her down, and of the smell of rum on his breath. Rumpelstiltskin, too, sometimes makes an appearance in her rambles, the interested eye that Maleficent gives her when she lets her mouth run with stories about the imp never failing to stop her words.

Maleficent never speaks back, though, mysterious or disinterested Regina doesn't know. She's too hard to get to know, and Regina confesses to herself that perhaps she's not even trying, not when Maleficent offers her a quiet ear and pleasure beyond her wildest dreams.

Truth be told, Regina isn’t particularly sure that Maleficent even likes her. She seems amused and bored in equal amounts by her, and seems perfectly content drinking quietly as she rants about whatever is on her mind, rages and seethes if she must, and even throws the odd fireball at the old walls within the fortress. They’re built to withstand the worst of fires, after all, and Regina is more than happy to give into her most basic instincts when she’s around Maleficent. The witch does love goading her, which seems to be her biggest entertainment, aside from laying her claim on Regina’s willing body. It may be a tactic to shut her up, or simply a way to pass the time for her, but there’s no doubt in Regina’s mind that Maleficent wants her, all the time, and in any way that Regina will allow herself to be taken.

Maleficent’s appetite is surprising but delightful, and Regina thrives in it with a feeling that approaches playfulness, even when she makes her feel nearly ashamed with the ways they find of tangling their bodies together. She’d never been shy with Daniel, him being the one to blush and be surprised by Regina wanting so much and with such unbidden desire, but their youth and inexperience, along with how little time they’d had, had certainly never allowed them to explore each other thoroughly. Regina suspects that Maleficent's hungry inclinations surpass anything that they may have come up with, though. Just Maleficent’s favorite position for her, hands and knees on the mattress and bottom high in the air so that she can taste her deep and slow, was enough to almost send Regina yelping with surprise from the bed the first time she’d manhandled her into it. And she’d laughed at Regina too, but then her tongue had more than made up for the teasing.

A part of her thinks that she should feel shame, but then she thinks there’s no disgrace in whatever kind of affection it is she shares with Maleficent, nor with the extensive love she had for Daniel. She figures that’s there’s only true indignity in Leopold forcing himself on her, on men buying into her tricks just because they like to stare at her body.

Maleficent’s craving for her body doesn’t surprise Regina in the least, not once she figures out that with her, it’s all indulgence, all the time. She’s not particularly fond of the taste of food, but she’s certainly a heavy drinker, and still somewhat addicted to that drug like composition made of her own sleeping curse. Regina refuses to try the latter, too afraid of her control slipping her completely with such a substance, but she allows herself to be taught to drink. Maleficent seems happy sharing tasteful wines and heavy liquors with her, teasing her when a night hazy with whiskey and kisses ends up with Regina feeling so sick that she swears she must be dying.

“What a lightweight, my dear,” Maleficent mocks her, even as she’s curling a soft hand on her back.

It’s rare for Maleficent to be soft with her, but it does happen. The odd caress to her face that feels heavy with emotion, a tender kiss pressed to her neck, soft and lingering, full with silent meaning, a profound gaze speaking of unpronounceable affection. Regina soaks up the feeling of those fleeting moments, afraid to feel more than she should for this woman that so very obviously can’t love her fully, the way Regina may just need to escape her own spiral of darkness.

Regina tries showing her own fondness back as best as she knows how without betraying that her feelings may be deeper than she can afford them to be. There’s no place for love in the vast emptiness of her insides, not with anger and revenge filling up every crevice, but the spark of care for this woman that has woken her body up from its slumber is something she doesn’t know how to stop. Regina’s tenderness comes in the form of treats, for as much as Maleficent isn’t fond of eating, she has a sweet tooth and a weakness for anything special and foreign. As long as anything seems unhealthy and extraordinary enough, Maleficent will have it, a yellow shine to her animalistic eyes and a childlike smile etched on her lips. Regina thinks of Maleficent’s capriciousness as a game, and is secretly thrilled with the search of the tastiest morsels she can get her hands on.

In Agrabah, she finds dates, syrupy fruits and overly sweet treats, most of them courtesy of Prince Bernard, who had surprisingly kept up his promise of correspondence with Regina.

His letters and constant gifts of candy had made Leopold upset enough that he’d berated Regina for her obvious affair with a foreign prince, and Regina hadn’t even hidden her rolling eyes as she’d quietly stated, “He’s eleven years old, Your Majesty, I hardly think seducing is in his skill set quite yet.”  

Father, too, proves to be an endless source of foreign gifts for her, and more than happy to regale her with tales of his long forgotten land, the way he’d done when Regina was little. Of course Regina brings big pieces of dark chocolate to Maleficent, but at father’s prompting, she also ends up with her hands full of _turron_ , the taste of nougats ending up a favorite of Maleficent’s; almonds covered in thick layers of pressed sugar, which they both find entirely too sweet, but enjoy passing from mouth to mouth in a way that somehow manages to be more erotic than disgusting; and marzipan, which Regina likes so much that she makes Maleficent beg for a taste.

On one occasion, she presents Maleficent with a shiny red apple, freshly picked from her own tree, and dangles it in front of her face as she lays on her front on Maleficent’s unmade bed, naked, still sweaty from their previous lovemaking and with her loose her falling pleasantly down her back. She quite enjoys the picture she must present, and ends up scowling when her little show grants her only a huff from Maleficent.

“It’s just an apple,” Maleficent whines, as if Regina’s previous offering of a treat had been nothing but a lie.

Regina rolls her eyes, even as she keeps the fruit in her hand, presenting it as the richest of treasures. “It’s a special apple from my tree, show some appreciation; few people have gotten a taste.”

Maleficent, who is for some reason lounging on the floor with a loose coverlet hanging on her otherwise naked body, gives a bit of a wicked smile as she counters, “A taste of your forbidden fruit, Regina?”

Regina has to suppress a groan at the comment, but forgives the cheesiness of it when Maleficent finally leans forward and takes a bite of the apple that’s still resting on Regina’s hand. She feigns interest as she munches, and even hums a little for show once she’s done. Then, and looking at Regina with serious eyes, she murmurs, “Guess what? It tastes _just like an apple._ ”

An offended huff escapes Regina, but Maleficent’s smile is delighted and wicked, and by the time she’s jumping back on the bed and discarding the bitten fruit somewhere in the room Regina is laughing, carefree.

Regina realizes that she smiles more around Maleficent than she has in years, and that her joy is tangible and real, lacking the bitterness that she finds when she deals with Snow, and the contempt that accompanies her interactions with just about everyone else. It’s daunting, the idea that she may just be happy outside the palace, with Snow White still roaming the world with a smile on her face, with Leopold unpunished, and she feels herself betraying her own sets of rules the more and more she lets Maleficent into her life. She even misses one of her council meetings because she’s too busy emptying a cup of wine on Maleficent’s skin and licking it away, and she hates how her miscalculation doesn’t even particularly bother her all that much, not when she can still feel Maleficent’s phantom touch imprinted on her body.

She tries to put distance between them, making her visits to Maleficent’s fortress fewer and farther in between, even when the loss of their passionate rendezvous makes her harsh and snappish. It’s better like this, though, she muses, as she busies herself with Snow and the council, with Rumpelstiltskin and his magic, as she loses her freedom in exchange for her ever-growing power.

She manages a little over two months away from her lover when her strategy proves futile, for Maleficent searches for her rather than wait for her visit, and ambushes her in her darkened bedchambers. She appears preceded by a noisy flock of crows, the loud and all encompassing sound waking Regina from her slumber, and barely giving her time to register what is happening before Maleficent is kneeling at the far end of her bed, casting a long shadow over her.

“Hello, Regina,” she says, and the darkness of the night coupled with her sudden appearance make her seem threatening to Regina, her mind still trying to wake up enough to make sense of Maleficent’s presence here, in her bedchambers at the palace.

She comes to easily enough, though, sleep the furthest thing from her mind when she regards her nightly visitor. As soon as her brain catches up with the situation, she hisses, “Mal, what are you doing here?” Her tone is angry, sharp, disapproving of the liberties Maleficent is taking with her sudden visit.

They don’t have a spoken agreement about their affair, but Regina had thought that it was pretty clear that she is the one who gets to decide the times and places for it to unfold. She would have thought, too, that Maleficent would be smart enough to understand that the king’s palace was out of limits; after all, Regina is the one who actually has something to lose if their meetings are discovered.

Maleficent doesn’t seem to care for formalities or secrets tonight, not as she easily dismisses Regina’s question and simply stares at her, hunching her shoulders forward and lowering a shiny gaze in a way that makes her look like a panther in the darkness of the room. Regina says nothing, Maleficent’s looming presence suddenly fearsome, primitive and predatory as she lowers her hands to the mattress and seemingly stalks Regina’s smaller figure. Sometimes Regina forgets what this woman truly is, but tonight she looks taller that Regina remembers her being, the embodiment of a witch capable of haunting people’s nightmares. Regina never wants to feel afraid of this woman, and desperately looks for a way to compose herself and demand an explanation, go back to the easy jabbing banter that they have with each other. In this moment, Regina can’t believe that she has called this woman pathetic, that she has goaded her into pouncing on her, that she has been a more than willing bed warmer for her.

Maleficent’s movements are slow but precise, and then they’re anything but. There’s obvious magic in the air when the bedspread gets ripped from Regina’s body, the taste of burnt meat invading the roof of Regina’s mouth as a gasp parts her lips. She has no time for fear or surprise, though, not when Maleficent’s hands are then pulling at the fabric of her nightgown, pushing up with such fast fingers that Regina can’t even begin to word a protest at the rough treatment.

“Mal–” she tries, choking on her own breath when she feels Maleficent’s weight pin her to the mattress with ease, the obvious strength of her limbs overpowering Regina’s weaker and still shocked body.

Maleficent growls once she’s pushed Regina’s nightgown past her hips, revealing her naked legs and stomach to her hungry gaze. Regina’s already wet, her body so attuned to Maleficent’s touches already that she can’t help it, especially because for all of her roughness, her hands are a careful caress when they rest at her waist, her thumbs pressing down on her hipbones. Regina doesn’t want this, though, never mind her traitorous body; not like this, with Maleficent so angry and with fear clouding her mind.

“Mal, wait–”

“What?” Maleficent spits, her voice a terrifying hiss. “Am I not good enough for the royal bed? Or did I get too boring for the queen?” Her tone is sharp and unforgiving, so angry that it makes Regina shiver, that it has her magic jumping with insistence at the back of her skull, ready to be shield and weapon.

Regina shakes her head manically, Maleficent’s angry questions going over her head. All she wants is for Maleficent to move away, to stop being a threat and become the lover she has come to appreciate with the utmost of fondness. Most of all, she wants to cover up again, her nakedness a sudden vulnerability when it has always been a delight to share with Maleficent.

“Not like this, Mal, please, just–”

And she doesn’t know what she’s asking but Maleficent must see whatever it is that she needs to see in Regina’s eyes. She withdraws immediately, freeing Regina from the weight of her body and gingerly bringing her nightgown back down over her legs, careful that her hands don’t touch her skin as she does so. She moves away from the bed, too, standing up by it and turning around so as to give Regina a shadow of privacy.

Regina breathes out slowly the moment Maleficent is away from her, feels her shaky limbs react to their new found freedom, and without a conscious thought finds herself tucking her knees close to her chest, holding them close with her arms. She sniffles in the quiet, and the sound prompts Maleficent to take a few steps away from the bed, the rustle of her dress as she walks enough to cover up Regina’s pathetic attempt at stopping tears from falling down her face. She succeeds despite the tightness of her throat doing the utmost effort to betray her, breathing shakily through her mouth and taking notice of the cleaner atmosphere of the room, which had so easily been invaded by oppressive magic the moment Maleficent had appeared.

Once calmed down, Regina is left with no other option than being angry, and so uncurling herself from her protective position, she finds herself looping her hands on the discarded cover of her bed instead, holding onto the fabric so as not to let go of the magic that is suddenly threatening to spill from her.

“What was that, Maleficent?” she asks as soon as she finds her voice again, her whispering tone hoarse and accusing, fury lacing every word.

Maleficent doesn’t answer immediately, and the silence stifles Regina, making her aware of her own wild heartbeat. A familiar ire uncoils somewhere behind her breastbone, a strong urge to mindlessly destroy whatever is within her reach, making Maleficent the only one surprised when a mirror breaks into small pieces beside her, the explosion of magic ending once they all fall with a noisy clutter to the floor. The noise may just be enough to wake up her lady maid’s and prompt her to search for its origins, so she waves a hand with the intent of locking up the room. Instead, all she manages to do is make a vase tumble to the floor and break, water and fresh flowers spreading everywhere. Regina grunts with frustration, her lack of control entirely too obvious when she closes her clumsy fist and finds a thin mist of purple magic flowing around it.

“You will destroy the room at this rate,” Maleficent scolds, and Regina throws her a dark look that gets lost when she realizes that Maleficent’s back is still to her.

The air is heavy around them yet again, almost palpable in its thickness. Regina does her best at calming down, but if Rumpelstiltskin is to be believed, then that isn’t a particular talent of hers. She looks at her own hands, the imprint of magic present on them, and she’s so focused on dialing her emotions down and tampering them inside her that she misses Maleficent coming close to her entirely. It’s the dip of the mattress what alerts her to her presence, and she looks up to find Maleficent occupying the least space she possibly can, sitting at the edge of her bed and giving Regina wide breathing space. Nevertheless, she’s offering her hands to Regina, palms up and steady, long fingers unmoving but clear in their request. Just because she’s asking rather than taking, Regina feels confident enough to place her own hands over hers, palms against Maleficent’s.

Maleficent’s hands are one of Regina’s favorite features of her, strong and capable, and so very smart when sliding over Regina’s skin, so adept at waking up every bit of bottled up lust that Regina possesses. They’re always cold, Maleficent’s skin taking some reptile like qualities from her dragon form, and while usually soothing, tonight they feel like even more of a calming balm once Regina is grasping them. Magic flows between them, draining Regina of her uncontrolled urges and pushing a heady like sense of serenity inside her. Her body sags at the feeling, her shoulders and head dropping forward, abruptly desperate for a place to rest. That place would be Maleficent’s chest on any other night, but Regina doesn’t think she can bring herself to get that close just yet.

Silence surrounds them as they stay mostly still, the only movement that of Maleficent’s thumbs on Regina’s hands, the pressure of them over her knuckles and fingers a caress pleasant enough to have Regina breathing steadily, and never wanting to let go.

“I’m so very sorry, my darling,” Maleficent speaks once the quietness has stretched too long. They’ve never been the quiet type, after all, always spewing words at each other or trading moans rather than letting the lull of silence press unwanted truths onto them.

Regina looks up, searching for Maleficent’s eyes. It’s jarring that she’s keeping herself away, their only point of contact they’re intertwines hands. Maleficent is always in her space, always touching their foreheads together, bringing a hand up to Regina’s cheek, mindlessly caressing whatever pieces of skin Regina’s clothes are choosing to put on display. Regina never fails to lap it up, her skin starved for the careful affection.

“Never do something like that again,” Regina counters. She wants to respect the current softness Maleficent has offered with her gestures and her words, but she finds that her words are sharp, angry in ways that she’s not sure she understands. “You do not belong here, and I don’t want you to ever be in this room again.”

The way Maleficent looks at her radiates such hurt that Regina can’t help but bite her own lower lip. It’s too late to stop the words, though, and Regina is too honest to pretend that she doesn’t mean them. She can’t afford Maleficent to crawl into every nook and cranny of her life, much less if she can cause such unparalleled fear within her. Maleficent’s eyes are hard to resist, though, such sadness ingrained in the deep blue of them, resignation imprinted in their corners and the small wrinkles of the skin around them. Regina wants to kiss it all away, have Maleficent’s lips take away with them whatever traces of shaky alarm remain with her, but she resists the pull, keeping their hands as their only connection.

“Be a good girl and pay me a visit sometime,” Maleficent whispers then, the same invitation she spoke to Regina when she came to find her that day by the lake, when Regina had been breaking apart and the mere suggestion of them meeting had thrown her for a loop. That request had been a teasing order, a hint of something new to come; this time, there’s something like desperation lacing Maleficent’s tone, an apology and a plea all at the same time.

Regina’s heart clenches inside her chest, beating too hard, as if trying to remind her that it still exists, that it’s there, alive and kicking for something that Regina refuses to give it. Because she may just love Maleficent. She may just love the feeling of her arms around her, her rich laugh, her taunts that always hit Regina playfully, the way she’ll feign boredom but let her talk anyway; she may just love her in whatever twisted, broken way her chipped heart knows how to love. Regina _can’t,_ though, because love is weakness, and there are people that must taste her rage still, and Maleficent’s heart is jagged like hers, her anger at the world already gone, having left behind nothing but despair, and it won’t be enough to fill Regina’s voids, to soothe the ails engraved into her skin with fire.

She squeezes Maleficent’s hands nonetheless, nods curtly as if making a promise for a future that she can’t guess at, and even allows the tears pooling into her eyes to fall down her cheeks. She wishes still for Maleficent’s soothing touch on her face, even when she won’t give into it.

“Maybe sometime,” she offers, her voice bubbling strong even through her own sadness.

Maleficent draws a weak smile, a futile attempt at bringing some of her usual confidence to her demeanor. “Bring me something sweet,” she says, the last of her words getting lost in the shimmering sound of crows announcing her parting.

And so, Regina is left alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Cielo, you have to stop, you have to go slower.


	4. Part IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW1: Implied eating disorder.
> 
> TW4: graphic depictions of super disgusting medieval disease (think bubonic plague).
> 
> TW3: Mentions of past marital rape and past emotional abuse.
> 
> TW4: Mentions of past miscarriage.
> 
> TW5: Also, the farther this goes the more it deals with Regina's Evil Queen tendencies, so canon compliant type of violence... Perhaps a _tad_ more bloody. Also, death of ocs, because I'm clearly developing a George R.R. Martin complex.
> 
> -
> 
> AN1: Translations in the notes at the end :)
> 
> Also, thanks ever so much to the lovely response this has gotten! *kisses for everyone*

In the face of her falling out with Maleficent, Regina grows sullen and ill-tempered. Her patience, which usually runs thin and needs to be kept under constant control, is nowhere to be seen in the weeks that follow her nightly encounter with her lost lover, nobles and servants bearing the brunt of her anxiousness in equal measure. She berates herself for her own behavior, finding that the reprieve Maleficent had offered has ended up being more of a curse than a blessing; she’d been doing just fine before her, but a year filled with drinks, sweet food and the pliant skin of a skilful lover has skewed her view of the world, and has her missing a relief that she perhaps shouldn’t have allowed herself in the first place.

Regina wavers in her purposes, thinking that Maleficent had left her only after extracting the promise of a _maybe_ from her, and that perhaps a visit to her fortress every once in a while wouldn’t be the worst idea, as long as she sets clear rules about their encounters. She tells herself all of this during her loneliest days, when she finds herself ready to snap and give into the magic uncoiling at the back of her neck and wanting her to _taketaketake,_ but in the end, she always denies herself the indulgence of her own wishes. Maleficent is an addiction, and she doesn’t think she can go back so soon and not stay. With a little more time, perhaps, she will allow herself to revel in the _maybes_ of them, so long as Maleficent still wants her, but for now, life at court is what must fill her time and efforts.

It’s a little over two months after she’s last seen Maleficent when Baroness Irene comes back to the palace, a long absence of almost fourth months due to so-called political travels making her be welcomed back with sighs of pleasure and murmurs of tales to be told. Regina is quick to snag her attention, of course, readying herself for long hours of idle prattle that may hold some interesting truths. The baroness doesn’t allow her a private visit, though, but rather brings along with her two lady’s maids and her newest protégé, so as to flaunt her close friendship with the queen as she so likes to do. They meet for brunch rather than tea, and Regina makes sure that it is an ornamental affair, obscene in that particular way that the baroness believes is what constitutes luxury, and which always sits wrong with Regina, as it speaks of waste rather than riches.

Regina finds that dealing with the baroness is harder than usual, and that the woman isn’t particularly impressed by her newly found inclination for brooding. Regina shouldn’t be surprised, knowing that the court likes her sweet and undemanding, shy in her expressions and smiling at the favors received. They want her to be a dim-witted child and a mysterious tragedy, rather than a ruling queen, and it’s almost as if they find her ugly when her mouth is set into a sneer.

“Now, my darling queen, what is it with you?” The baroness asks her that morning, tapping Regina’s hand with her own sticky fingers as if needing the contact to call for her attention. “I did not waste my first free morning with you so that you could be so dour.”

“Baroness!” The exclamation comes from the baroness’ charge, and it only makes the boisterous woman laugh uproariously and shush the girl with mirth in her eyes.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart; the queen and I are close friends.”

Regina nods her agreement, sparing a glance towards the girl whose name she failed to catch. It’s only proof of her own distraction that she didn’t file the information away in case it resulted useful, but she’s not particularly worried about another one of the girls the baroness has chosen as her pupil. Baroness Irene has a soft spot for young women such as these, never firstborns and always of barely known noble families, girls with little prospect if not for her becoming their benefactor. She always finds them the appropriate teachers and men to marry, but only after having paraded them around court for at least a fortnight, so that she can impress upon them her wisdom and knowledge of the world. Regina can admit that it isn’t a terrible endeavor for the old baroness, and that more than one lady owes her a debt for life, but she can’t help but hate how the ultimate goal in the baroness’ games is always to rub her own ego, and praise her own altruism.

Despite Regina’s feelings for the baroness, she knows she herself owes her a debt, if only for believing her games for so long now that she truly thinks of herself as Regina’s true and only confidante. Regina thinks she should have gotten more than used to the woman’s antics, but she finds that as the years pass and her interests lie more and more in politics than in gossip, it is harder for her to put up her front for this woman. Still, if she’s slipping this badly with her, she can’t even begin to imagine how terribly she’s been neglecting her public image. No matter how much she hates it, she still needs the approval of this court, and she can’t allow herself a breakdown over a secret affair with a witch.

Blinking owlishly at the baroness, Regina straightens her posture, only now realizing how close to slouching she’d gotten during the time she’d been listening to the woman’s blabbering, and smiles a little sheepishly in the mockery of an apology.

“The baroness is right, dear, we are the closest of friends,” she tells the girl, nodding appropriately. The girl nods back, an easy and small smile adorning her face – she seems sweet, but then they usually are.

“I do appreciate the honesty, baroness,” Regina continues, looking this time at the baroness with her eyes drawn down, towards her own hands. When she finally looks up, she does so slowly and with her chin pointed down, in that way that Regina knows makes her appear young and girlish. “Will you believe me if I tell you that four months of your absence has left me bereft of trustworthy company? I do find myself so very lonely when you are away, and perhaps I haven’t been as agreeable company as I should be.”

That prompts a sudden and heartfelt, “Oh, my dear child,” to fall from the baroness’ lips, an affected hand travelling to her chest in a gesture of stirred emotion, and just like that, Regina knows that she’s done well.

Regina’s encounter with the baroness is left as nothing but a glitch in their otherwise wonderful relationship, and soon enough, Regina finds herself slipping into her old behaviors, rebuilding old barriers that hadn’t truly been broken so much as dented. It’s easy by now, years of manipulation falling into place in a way that make her realize that it’s not even something she has to work on so much as a way of life, easy control that she knows how to fasten around herself. And yet, she knows herself to be entirely too anxious.

Apprehension and distress take hold of her, a kind of madness that she doesn’t quite understand. She finds herself going through the motions, but notices herself growing careless and impulsive, wanting to let her tongue run with insulting truths. Perhaps she’s going mad, after all, or maybe loosing the freedom of her affair with Maleficent has unhinged her completely. As much mindlessness as her time with Maleficent had brought her, the chance to be herself in the secure space of her fortress had allowed her a tighter control outside of it. Still, she refuses to go back, and instead ploughs on with her everyday life as best as she knows how.

The planning of a journey to Queen Catherine’s kingdom occupies her mind, not the mere practical aspects of it, but rather the understanding of the stakes of their visit. Queen Catherine’s kingdom collides with Leopold’s at its northeast border, and Regina had easily dismissed it because of its small territory and the late king’s refusal to pact or trade with neighboring kingdoms. Still, there’s a lot to say for a kingdom so self-sufficient, particularly when the death of the king has left a queen in its throne who has expressed a personal interest in Regina, rather than Leopold. Regina can’t be sure of the origin of Queen Catherine’s information regarding her persona, but she’s certainly more than interested in sharing words with a newly appointed female ruler, and is even hopeful that a friendship may be struck, if only out of a shared sense of solidarity.

The preparation of the journey busies her, but her nerves don’t abate. On the other hand, she finds herself hating all the hoops she must jump whenever she wants to accomplish anything in this court. She should be used to it by now, with the way she must convince the council of her ideas through subterfuge and games, and to how she must couple that with keeping up a good face in front of the ever-present visiting noblemen. She should be used to it by now, and yet she finds herself rebelling against the constant judgment. She’s spent years doing this, and she’s exhausted of the scrutiny and the carefulness she must manage herself with, of the hidden corners of her soul and the fake smiles she must bestow upon everyone around her. She finds herself wanting to explode, wanting to forget all the ground work she’s laid for years now and simply show herself as the true powerful woman that she is, make them all realize that she has been ruling and toying with their lives for longer than they could ever suspect.

Nights are the hardest, the cloak of darkness and a lack of sleep that persecutes her as of late giving way to her madness. Laying on her bed, covered by thick and luxurious bed linens and left alone with her thoughts, she fantasizes about a future that she can’t wait to grasp with both open hands, one where King Leopold is dead and gone, where Snow White suffers the burden of her sins on her pale and lovely flesh, where this court and council is gone forever. She figures that she won’t have to keep pretending once she’s sitting on the throne, her own army at her beck and call, the power of magic in her hands and every important ally already hers. There will be no court members in her palace, no breaching of her intimacy, no eyes to criticize and gauge her decisions. Baroness Irene will be the first one to go, disgraced and surprised at the betrayal of the one she thought her friend, her grating voice one that Regina won’t be forced to listen to ever again. Leopold’s council will be next, conceited men who still think they know better than her, even when they’ve been yielding to her desires for so long now; she’ll need no council, she figures, not when it’s her own hand what has been ruling this kingdom. And if there’s one, perhaps it will be different, filled with gnomes, ogres, witches, imps, neglected creatures of the night that have been forced into concealing themselves to fool this world that doesn’t want them.

At night, she laughs at her own thoughts, and it’s then she realizes that she must have gone crazy, at last.

   

* * *

 

 

The days before their journey to Queen Catherine’s kingdom find her sharing a slow walk through the palace gardens with Snow, their steps slow and lingering, almost tired. Regina won’t admit that she’s exhausted even when she knows that to be nothing but the truth, her nights having been filled with long hours of unrest as of late. She’s fidgety, as if waiting for something, even if what that might be escapes her completely. Surprisingly enough, Snow seems devoid of her usual energy as well, and her demeanor matches Regina’s and has her walking quietly, where she would usually be talking Regina’s ear off. It’s almost nice, if it weren’t for the fact that Regina doesn’t know what nice feels like anymore.

They don’t share these kinds of walks anymore, at least not as much as they’d used to when Snow was younger and she craved Regina’s company on just about every hour of the day. Snow’s eighteen now, at the prime of her youth, and the crowd of sycophants that she calls friends is usually trailing behind her, wide eyed and expectant, so very grateful at being afforded the princess’ time and favor. Regina shouldn’t feel scorned by them, not when she has her own pack of followers among the members of the court, and when Snow has insisted on more than one occasion on bringing her along when she’s spending time with her favorite companions. Regina had tried, once, and the idle prattle had given her too much of a headache to even think about putting herself through such an ordeal again, and any case, her presence hadn’t been particularly welcomed by the young and boisterous mob that formed Snow’s inner circle. Snow’s none the wiser about this, of course, eternally hopeful in the idea that every single person is nice and willing to get along.

However, today they find themselves walking together, and at Snow’s request, too. The petition had been rare enough to peak Regina’s interest, since Snow customarily chooses to intrude in Regina’s time and space without consideration and without feeling the need of previous approval, a constant unwanted invader to Regina’s senses. It may be that Regina’s dealings with the council have been keeping her much too busy to pose a surprise visit, but the formality of Snow’s inquiry along with the lack of undertone of demand in her words had certainly been unexpected. Snow had asked for her time while shyly looking at the floor two days prior to this lazy stroll taking place, and her uncharacteristic disposition had left Regina speechless for a too long moment before she’d been able to acquiesce to the request. Today, as they walk quietly, Regina finds herself equally taken aback by Snow’s silence, and even while she walks at a slow pace, she can feel all the alarms starting to ring loudly inside her head. She may just be fretting over nothing at all, but she would rather be prepared for whatever might be perturbing Snow’s thoughts for her to behave in such a strange manner.

Snow says nothing, though, and rather than prod her into speaking her mind, Regina lets the calm linger, and remains quiet as their steps keep up their steady but dallying cadence. There’s an air of secrecy around them, something sort of intimate and conspiring that they haven’t shared for a while now. Most of their interactions are reduced to lessons these days, which have mostly turned into soft chats over common readings as years have gone by and Snow has proven to be a distracted but adept pupil. They still share a meal here and there on occasion, but their schedules and duties keep taking up their time in ways they never did when Snow was younger. Whatever the case, no one expects the eighteen year old princess to cling to her step-mother the way she did when she was a child, and being perceived as too codependent of each other would have only upset the precarious balance of their public relationship; where Regina was expected to shower adoration over an infant Snow, now she’s expected to let her thrive on her own and watch from the sidelines. This happens to serve more than one purpose, not only encouraging Snow’s independence, but also giving Regina the reprieve she needs from her stifling relationship with her.

Nevertheless, this afternoon is playing tricks with her mind, making her feel at peace the longer they walk, the alarms inside her being muffled under the crispy cold of the atmosphere, the scent of an oncoming storm and the alien mood surrounding them. The weather is starting to be too cold to bear, winter already knocking at their doors, but the chilliness that precedes it is one that Regina enjoys, particularly when she covers herself properly in warm furs and soft leather gloves. Snow isn’t quite as cautious as she is in her clothing choices, and today she has foregone the use of gloves, so when Regina turns her eyes towards her she finds her hiding her hands under her armpits, obviously seeking warmth. She’s complained on more than one occasion about the lack of pockets on women’s dresses, and while Regina heartily agrees on that particular point, she can’t help but twist her lips into a grimace in the face of Snow’s lack of foreshadowing.

“You should have brought your gloves with you, dear,” Regina says, her tone lightly scolding. A few years back, she may have offered her own, but today she contents herself with expressing her thoughts.

Snow says nothing, merely shrugging and offering Regina a quaint and guarded smile, made beautiful only by the red on her cheeks. Snow’s smiles are always better when they’re big and natural, but whatever is clouding Snow’s mind has her looking uncomfortable, and the look doesn’t suit her features. She hugs herself tighter, keeping her hands right where they are, her arms crossed over her chest making her appear awkward.

“We haven’t taken a walk together in a while, have we?” Snow wonders a while later, after they’ve left the silence lull them back into a sense of peaceful slumber.

Regina hums her answer, and keeps walking only to realize that Snow has stopped once they’ve been separated a few steps. Regina turns and looks back, curious at the sudden halt, and catches Snow looking at her own feet, her posture rigid even when she’s seemingly trying to hunch in on herself. Everything about her screams distress, whatever it is that she wants to say physically shaking her natural charm. It’s almost funny, how Regina has been calculating every conversation for years now, but how when Snow feels the need to leave her naturalness aside it clamps her so; Regina may have taught Snow quite a bit, but the mastering of herself and those around her is not something that she has passed on. Even when Snow slips on her role of perfect little princess she does so with ease, as second nature rather than as the drawing of masks and personas that Regina forces herself to inhabit.

Regina, sensing that Snow won’t say what she wants to say if not prompted, resigns herself to the situation, and with a sigh, asks, “What’s on your mind, Snow?”

What she truly wants to do is bark an order of _spit it out, girl,_ but she’s not so far gone as to say such things to Snow, whose fragile ego may never recover from such treatment. That of course doesn’t stop a sudden spark of exasperation from settling a frown between Regina’s eyes, particularly when her question doesn’t grant her an immediate answer. Rather than snap at Snow, though, Regina looks about herself and to the gardens around them. They’ve wandered quite deeply today, and the spot Snow has chosen for her sudden pause is surrounded by the thickest of trees, so their view of the sky is clouded by the sight of browning leaves. It’s almost dark around them despite the early hour, and the sound of wind through the rustling leaves along with the lack of light creates a makeshift atmosphere of eeriness. Being this deep inside the gardens, Regina wonders if anyone would hear them scream.

“Regina, I…” Snow begins eventually. Her bravado doesn’t last her long, though, and so her words linger in the air between them until they’re completely lost, the rustling wind becoming the only sound around them once again.

Snow is still looking down, even after her first attempt at speaking, and Regina wants her to face her properly and bring her eyes forward and up. Lessons on ladylike postures and the right height to set her chin at pass through her mind unwittingly, and she doesn’t try to quiet her thoughts down, but rather lets them roam free, and ends up extending a hand towards Snow and resting her fingers on her chin. Her touch is soft but firm when she pulls Snow’s chin up, the princess’ eyes now almost forced to look into Regina’s. To her credit, Snow holds her gaze steadily before taking a small step back, effectively escaping Regina’s grip and leaving her hand hanging in the air, purposeless. It seems as if a world of distance is keeping them apart, and Regina feels abruptly unsettled.

“Regina, how are you?” is what Snow finally asks. Her tone is firm and unwavering, as if Regina’s touch has given her the strength she needed to focus this conversation.

The question throws Regina for a loop, too open and rare for her to find a proper answer. She can’t begin to guess at what Snow may actually be asking with her inquiry, but she knows for certain this isn’t worry about her general well-being; Regina can’t remember an instance in which anyone in this palace has asked for her state of mind, rather than fill the conversation with their conjectures before allowing Regina to actually speak.

Regina looks about herself to give herself some time, and soon enough spots a bench hidden among dark green bushes and an unruly mass of wild flowers that she knows the Royal Gardener will cut down as soon as he catches sight of them. The bench is dark metal, rather than the usual stone, and Regina poses her next question as she sits on it, paying attention to the fabric of her skirt as she does so and avoiding Snow’s gaze, hiding her unforeseen agitation in familiar movements.

“I am just fine, dear, whatever do you mean?”

“You are not fine, you _can’t_ be fine,” Snow counters immediately, her tone suggesting forceful denial of Regina’s apparent lie.

The severity of the statement surprises Regina, but then again, Snow seems taken aback by it herself, like she can’t quite believe the seriousness hidden inside her voice. She ploughs on, though, stubbornness clear in the unfamiliar scowl that mars her features. It’s a bizarre gesture on her face, one that doesn’t feel right.

“Regina, lately you have been–” Snow stops, licks her lips as if giving herself time. Whatever it is she wants to say must be disagreeable if she’s so openly upset about it. “Insensitive,” she settles on finally, her tone indicating that she has finally found the least harsh word possible to express her feelings.

“Insensitive?” Regina questions, blinking owlishly at the jarring image Snow is presenting her with. Then, with sudden impatience, she says, “You are going to have to express yourself more clearly than that if you wish me to understand you, Snow. Honestly, I feel as I have wasted years of education on you.”

“That, there!” Snow exclaims, pointing a finger at her but immediately bringing her hand back and closer to her body. “That harshness, Regina.”

For a moment, Regina is left speechless, long enough that words aren’t needed when Snow is the one to keep talking. She paces as she does so, merely three steps back and forth in a dizzying and fast loop, but that is apparently better than looking Regina’s way when throwing accusations at her.

“You have been harsh with me, and father, and–and–and you had a maid lashed just three nights ago over a broken vase!”

Regina laughs, deep and jagged but short, an obvious mock to Snow’s uncalled for distress. “That wasn’t harshness, Snow, that was mere punishment; over three broken vases, a destroyed painting and a mysterious continuous disappearance of silverware, dear, if I may add,” she says, a scoff following her statement. “Do research your facts when you choose to accuse me of imagined crimes.”

“Regina…” her name lingers in the air between them, Snow’s lips still shaping the last letter as she comes to sit by her, still very obviously bothered by this discussion. She’s searching for some kind of answer, some kind of reassurance, and for some reason, Regina is not willing to give it to her today.

Snow repeats her name once again, this time as she blindly searches for Regina’s hands with her own. Regina obliges her, and soon she’s rubbing her gloved hands over Snow’s obvious freezing ones. The skin is red and taut, and Regina knows it must be tender after lacking warmth for so long. In an unconscious gesture, she finds herself bringing Snow’s hands up to her mouth and blowing warm breath on them as she rubs them together, trying to infuse her fingers with a little heat. She looks up as she does this, and she finds Snow smiling at her now, small but sweet in a way that is more familiar with the Snow she knows.

“There you are,” Snow says, soft and wistful.

The statement has Regina clenching her hands around Snow’s, a gesture that is thankfully easily mistaken as another way of passing on warmth to the cold skin between her fingers. Truthfully, it betrays nothing but tension, abrupt disgust burning up Regina’s throat, and leaving a bitter taste on the roof of her mouth. _Here I am, indeed,_ Regina thinks; the fragile servant queen ready to fulfill this princess’ capricious desires, this kind soul that must be under some kind of spell for daring to be something other than candidly gentle.

“Tell me, Snow,” she says suddenly, straightening back up and lowering their joined hands, allowing them to rest on the fluffy fabric of her skirt. “What would you have me do if not punish a maid for her misdeeds?”

As she asks this, Regina realizes she’s posed the question in the teacher-like tone she favors unintentionally during her usual lessons with Snow. She doesn’t like it, finds it entirely too reminiscent of mother and the way she would try to trick her into failure back when she was a child. Snow doesn’t seem to find it displeasing, though, but it does make her twist her head to the side in that way that tells Regina that she’s seriously pondering the question. Their lessons have lately taken the shape of moral and strategic discussions, so perhaps it’s only natural that this feels like just one more hour of teachings spent together.

Snow doesn’t take long, and when she answers, there’s stubbornness laced in her tone. “Have mercy.”

“Mercy has its place I suppose, as well as punishment,” Regina replies. “A lesson learnt early on will undoubtedly avoid further misconducts, and encourage discipline.”

“Regina,” Snow says her name followed by a quick gasp, as if she can’t quite believe what she’s hearing. Her eyes are wide and red-rimmed, the cold making Snow’s features look unusually uncomely, and the gaze that she’s bestowing upon Regina suggesting a sigh of madness in her. Whatever Snow is seeing in Regina this afternoon is skewing her view of her, disrupting whatever image she has of her inside her head, and her obvious agony over this fact is both disconcerting and frustrating. Should Regina give Snow a simple platitude and disambiguate her words so Snow hears what she needs to hear? Isn’t Snow old enough to see the world for what it truly is?

Abruptly letting go of Regina’s hands, Snow sits up straight and defiantly, she declares, “I think you’re wrong.”

Regina bristles at the same time she has to stifle a hysterical and sudden laugh. Snow is looking at her full of petulance and provocation, the sudden crossing of her arms over her own chest giving her the appearance of a five year old throwing a tantrum. Nonetheless, there’s determined obstinacy written sharply in every contour of her face, enough that a wave of delighted pride explodes inside Regina’s chest. The strength written in every fiber of Snow’s being is Regina’s doing, whatever fragile demeanor Leopold’s bumbling ways may have instilled in Snow erased under Regina’s careful hand. Snow’s confrontational stance is natural and real, the most tangible showcase of Regina’s own tenacity mirrored back at her from this girl that she was saddled with when she was a child herself, and it forces an honest and boastful smile to bloom on her face. It disarms Snow, her shoulders losing part of their tension in the face of Regina’s seemingly odd answer to her outburst.

Softly, and reaching forward to place her hand over Snow’s still crossed arms, she says, “You are entitled to your own opinion.”

They are both startled by Regina’s words, as if they’re foreign, perhaps even untoward. They speak of independence and clear-headedness in a way that the world doesn’t encourage in women, and it feels like a shared piece of forbidden wisdom.

Eventually, though, the bizarre conversation and range of feelings that have been assaulting them both leaves, just as sudden as it had come to them. Snow sighs her way out of it, her body unfurling from its fighting stance and her limbs falling free and loose before she curls herself against Regina, leaning her cheek on her shoulder and putting both arms around one of Regina’s in a loose hold. Regina watches her close her eyes for a too long beat in which she resigns herself to be, once again, beloved sister and silent support. Closing her own eyes, she rests her own head against Snow’s, her soft hair fuzzy and humid under her already cold cheek.

“Oh Regina, I do worry when you’re unkind,” Snow says, preciousness filling up her tone in a familiar way.

A few seconds ago, the comment may have fired something angry inside Regina, but the moment’s passed and she’s back to being tired, almost sleepy, so instead she lets it go and settles on the usual contradicting pattern of emotions that Snow’s closeness always brings her way.

“We should go back inside, dear,” she states, dismissing Snow’s latest comment and prompting them to move.

The movement brings them back to life, their earlier quiet stroll substituted with quicker steps meant to take them back to the warmth of the palace as soon as possible. Snow seems recovered from her previous sullen behavior, and so she regales Regina with the story of the fantastically gorgeous embroidery of a mockingbird one of her so-called friends had gifted her with not two days ago. Her sunny disposition grates on Regina, who had found the princess more interesting by bounds and leaps when burdened with unanswered questions and defiant words. She seems almost shallow to her now, and that particular sour feeling that she has come to associate with Snow settles firmly back into her chest. Nevertheless, it fails to burn at its brightest, the sudden stab of pride from minutes ago still somewhat present within Regina.

Hatred is a funny thing, Regina has learnt. The emotion should be uncomplicated, and it can definitely be, the pungent disgust she feels whenever she thinks of Leopold proof enough of how simple feelings can be. It’s always difficult with Snow, though, her hatred for her full of the nuances that her hatred for her father lacks. She despises her, _and yet._ And yet sometimes her hatred for her burns brighter than hatred itself, twisting and turning Regina’s insides with every vitriolic desire she has ever harbored for the princess. Other times, though, it is tinged with the deepest of knowledge of Snow’s character, stabbed at with notions of pride and bitter love, filled with rage far beyond the princess’ sins, intertwined with every little chipped part of Regina’s heart. Today is one of those days, the days that convince her that she could kill Snow and hate herself for it, even while knowing that letting her live would only destroy her insides bit by bit. So, when Snow grabs her hand as they walk back towards the palace, her voice filling Regina’s silences with unwanted stories, Regina squeezes it with nimble fingers, hoping that the touch will stop her from whatever wild instinct might conquer her soul.

 

* * *

 

A soft layer of snow covers the ground when they journey into Queen Catherine’s kingdom, the weather getting colder the more their travels take them up north. It hasn’t snowed enough yet for the whiteness to create a beautiful landscape, so when Regina steps down from the king’s carriage her booted feet meet muddy dirt speckled by melting white. The Royal Palace before them is a beautiful sight, regardless, more a grandiose manor than anything else, but radiating warmth with its earthy tones and the way thick green-leaved trees surround it. Regina likes it immediately, much more so when once inside, she’s surrounded in lush dark furniture and soft-looking thick carpets covering the floors and the walls, as if wanting to preserve what little warmth the territory may offer. Most rooms favor wood over stone, and when Snow mutters her excitement next to her, she can’t help but agree.

Queen Catherine hasn’t prepared a great audience for them to mingle with, and so it’s just a couple dozens of guests at most that roam the palace’s halls. Regina finds that it’s easier to get lost within big crowds, but she can admit that she enjoys the quieter atmosphere the queen is offering them. It gives this visit an air of familiarity and open hospitality, which makes for something almost romantic to float the air, particularly when paired with the strong winds of the winter moving the trees eerily on the outside. It has Regina wanting to spend all her time inside without feeling as if she’s being stifled.

In the spirit of warm intimacy, the queen favors quiet entertainments over the usual commemorating balls most royals opt for, and so she engages their interest with music bands that accompany peaceful evenings, friendly card games, and the offering of her harpsichord to whoever may wish to play it. Snow perks up at the chance to flex her musical fingers, and Regina barely manages to thwart her enthusiasm by suggesting that she sings for them instead, and allows some other guest to try their hand at the instrument – Regina’s had enough of the girl’s choppy attempts at playing to last her a lifetime.

Snow sings for them on their third night at the palace, and as she begins, Queen Catherine catches Regina’s eye and gives her something of a mischievous smile, as if she knows exactly what Regina intended when she politely stopped Snow from even approaching the seat of the harpsichord. She hasn’t had the chance of speaking privately with the queen, all political talk having been postponed for a later date, so as to allow their guests rest and peace after their long journeys. Regina suspects that this trip is more a social call than a political one, but so far, she can’t say that she minds. What she does mind, of course, is the riveted fashion with which the queen’s son is looking at Snow’s figure, her posture poised and proud and she sings softly but with purpose. Queen Catherine has a step-son and a son, the first one being the heir to the throne by virtue of being the oldest, despite the king’s first wife having died during childbirth. Both princes look pleasant enough, their demeanor calm and collected, both of them seemingly more interested in fine arts and humanities than swords and jousts. It’s an odd but welcomed change, but that doesn’t mean that Regina wants their paws anywhere near Snow.

Regina must admit, though, that Queen Catherine herself is far more interesting than any of her children. Dark-haired and golden-skinned, she is quite a beautiful woman, her features sharp but somehow cheeky, the corner of her lips seemingly hiding a secret. Rumors and whispered words had made Regina expect an older woman, but she should know better by now than to trust the failed criteria of men who choose their wives among the youngest crowds possible – the queen mustn’t be older than forty, and her skin, still taut and attractive, glows with radiating energy. Most importantly, the warm yet curious rhythm to this visit has peaked Regina’s interest beyond belief, as well as the way the queen keeps intently catching Regina’s gaze with her own, as if they’re sharing a common joke.

The queen finally grants her an audience the following evening, but rather than summon her to a meeting hall, she receives her in her own personal library, a spacious room full of light and fully furnished in cream-colored wood. Queen Catherine has them sit by the large glass panes that let the light filter inside the chamber, the crystal going from floor to roof in a way that Regina has never seen before. The effect is beautiful, and with the waning light of the evening touching her skin, as well as the beautiful sight of snowed gardens before them, Regina feels utterly at peace. The queen offers her a cup of tea, spiced with a foreign root that she calls ginger, and warm toffee cakes that taste deliciously gooey. If Regina didn’t know better, she would say that she was being seduced.

They share polite amenities for a short time, but the queen isn’t one for beating around the bush, and soon enough she’s fixing Regina with a sharp gaze and licking her lips with clear purpose.

“I will confide that the reason for this visit is far from political,” the queen tells her. “I have neither desire nor necessity for trading agreements or whatever it is I lured you here with.”

Regina contemplates playing dumb, but she has a feeling that this woman won’t appreciate the act and will be displeased by lack of wits, so she nods and offers her true suspicions, answering with, “I had gathered as much.”

Queen Catherine waits for Regina to take a long sip of her tea before she gives in and fills the silence stretching between them. “Won’t you inquire after my reasons, then, Your Majesty?”

“I have a feeling you will confess them regardless of my prodding.”

“Smart girl,” the queen answers, something like smug condescension entering her tone. Regina doesn’t appreciate it, hates that the woman has referred to her as she would to some particularly smart dog, but she lets it pass and instead opens her eyes wide, waiting for the queen to explain herself. “The truth is I wanted to take a look at the competition myself.”

With a curious raised eyebrow, Regina prods, “Oh?”

Queen Catherine laughs, the sound of it small but clear and elongating her neck as it comes out. It’s clear to Regina that the queen knows what her better attributes are, and that she knows how to display them, much like herself. Perhaps she’s not wrong in thinking that the queen may prove to be a kindred spirit of sorts. For now, though, she’s far more interested in finding the meaning behind her earlier words.

The queen seemingly relaxes after her short-lived laugh, her shoulders pressing back on her seat along with the back of her head after reaching for a previously discarded piece of cake. “I was looking to find a second husband for myself,” is what the queen says once she’s done chewing. She’s not looking at Regina now, but rather at the lovely view her library has to offer, and it feels as if she’s setting herself for telling a long story. She continues saying, “I fancied that perhaps my good old friend King George may be a suitable replacement for my late king, but it seems that he has his eyes set on a different prospect.”

Regina doesn’t miss the pointed look that Catherine gives her then; she’s sure she’s not supposed to. Her words make her smile, the suggestion that they hide about King George’s ambitions thoroughly interesting if not completely unexpected. Regina can’t possibly be surprised by the man’s greed, and she can’t say that she hadn’t spied what the man must consider as courting in their latest shared letters. Nevertheless, Regina dismisses the queen’s words easily.

“As you very well know, I am already married,” she says.

Catherine huffs out a laugh, clearly entertained by both the situation and the conversation. She’s most certainly not looking for a confrontation, so she mustn’t be all that put out by the king’s rejection. She seems mostly amused, delight making her features look young and rather lovely.

“Don’t you worry, Your Majesty, George is a romantic at heart; he shall wait for you.”

That prompts Regina’s laughter, a short and cheerful bark that she can’t stop. She smiles the queen’s way, and as she speaks, she receives a mirror image in return. “If you claim King George is an old friend, dear, then surely you know that he’s moved by greed rather than love.” She leans forward then, as if sharing a secret, and whispers, “I’m afraid his desire for Leopold’s land is far greater than his craving for any woman in this world.”

“Ah, no wonder he likes you,” Catherine states. “He said you were bold.”

Regina snorts at that, feeling free enough in the presence of this woman before her to drop some of her ladylike affectations. She snags her cup of lukewarm tea as she drops her shoulders back against the cushions of her chair, and wraps her hands around the warm porcelain as she tries to stop herself from _tsk_ -ing. “Men will call you anything before they concede your intelligence.”

“True, but then George isn’t mistaken in his appreciation of your character, I believe.”

Regina suppresses her instinctual answer this time, an unimpressed hiss fighting its way out of her. She doubts George actually appreciates her in any way beyond what their alliance may offer his kingdom; not _once_ have the man’s eyes lowered towards her cleavage, or strayed to look at her face for longer than necessary. The man likes her sharp tongue and her willingness to speak politics, but Regina has no doubt that the moment she stops being a beneficial ally, she will become an enemy in his eyes, which is perhaps the reason for him to look for the ultimate pact that a marriage would provide.

When the queen speaks again, Regina is almost distracted, and so it takes her a moment to discern her words completely.

“I will say though, you are quite the beautiful woman.” And her tone, lilting and delicate, takes on a hoarser quality as her words hang in the air between them.

Regina appraises the woman before her, smiles when she realizes that her speech is not the usual complimentary babbler that women are presumed to share among themselves, but something filled with intention. However, what she answers with is, “Married still, nonetheless.”

“Let’s drop the titles and be honest for a minute, Regina,” the queen says, shaping her name with purpose and care, and fixing her eyes on her so as not lose her attention. “How old is that husband of yours?”

“I don’t know; just, _old._ ” Her statement is followed by a sneer. Honestly, she’s enjoying herself, and she would rather not have Leopold at the forefront of her mind.

“So, how long does he have to live; eight, ten years? George can wait that much.”

There won’t be long years for Leopold to enjoy, not if Regina has any say on the subject, but no matter how much honesty Catherine wants from her, that she won’t confess. Instead, she declares, “I don’t intend to remarry.”

“You may want to reconsider that when you find yourself alone and pressured by a world ruled by men.”

“I will not remarry,” Regina states yet again, anger now pushing at her words, her fingers suddenly tight against the cup that she’s still holding. The fine porcelain is already warm from her fingers, and if she presses just a tad harder, she may end up breaking the thing.

The queen regards her with an air of disdain then, saying, “Perhaps you’re too young to completely understand the ways of the world, after all.”

“Or perhaps I shall rewrite such ways.”

Contempt leaves the queen’s features then to be replaced by sheer delight. She laughs yet again, that sound that’s free and delicate, and that Regina can’t help but like. “My, my, you _are_ bold.”

The statement is spoken as a joke, perhaps even as a way of calming her sudden and vicious anger, but it fails to accomplish its goal. Regina is being nothing but serious with her words, but this woman who is intent on a second marriage barely six months after losing her first husband surely won’t be able to understand her true intentions. Queen Catherine, who has shown the world strength and charisma, isn’t actually willing to bend the rules, but will rather maneuver herself through them. Regina doesn’t doubt that she does that with ease, experienced as she seems in the designs of royal life, but that isn’t the way Regina wishes to live her life anymore. The queen is condescending her, thinking her too young, when the truth is that she’s the one deserving of disdain.

“Now don’t look so serious, Regina,” the queen tells her, even as she busies herself with standing up and straightening the fabrics that have wrinkled in her almost slouch. Regina can admit that she cuts quite the royal figure, and can’t help but smile when the queen offers softly, “I must leave you now, but enjoy your evening here. It is the most beautiful place in the palace, and no one will disturb you.”

Regina gives her _thank you_ with a tight smile and a nod of her head, looking up at the queen before her appraisingly. Queen Catherine isn’t perhaps all that Regina expected, but she won’t deny that she’s certainly a change of pace from the women she usually meets, and that she’s offered her a place for honesty, even if Regina can’t grasp it with fully open hands. Whatever the case, there is no political advantage to win here, not from this small kingdom that means nothing and that wishes to survive self sufficiently, so she may as well enjoy her stay in the warm palace and make sure that she remains in the queen’s good graces, just in case their mutual acquaintance proves to be beneficial in the future.

The queen leaves her swiftly, the swish of her dress the only sound accompanying her otherwise silent steps. She stops by the door before she completely abandons the chamber, though, and she waits until Regina is looking at her before allowing a smile to curve her attractive mouth. She gazes at Regina appraisingly, as if searching for something, and whatever it may be, it seems that she finds it.

“Perhaps you will consider joining me for a nightcap tonight after dinner in my bedchambers,” the queen offers, feigned coyness invading her tone.

Regina raises both eyebrows, impressed by the queen’s openly obvious invitation. She _is_ being seduced after all, and she can’t say that the feeling, or the way Queen Catherine’s eyes are suddenly filled with open admiration, are unpleasant. Quirking her lips into an amused smirk, she says, “I shall be delighted.”

 

* * *

 

Regina visits Queen Catherine that night, once most guests have retired to their own chambers after a plentiful dinner and a delightful evening filled with soft string music. She’s warm when she walks into the queen’s bedchambers, but she enjoys the fire lighting up the room anyway, and she accepts the cupful of warm brandy Catherine offers her. It burns as it goes down her throat, but she barely has time to savor it, not when the queen proves once again to be a woman that goes straight to the point.

Queen Catherine turns out to be a clinical sort of lover, adequate but dispassionate, and Regina can’t help but find herself a little disappointed with the whole ordeal. The twinkle of the queen’s eyes and the cheekiness of her smile had promised fun ecstasy, but the step by step approach she has to lovemaking feels like the demeanor of a woman on a mission, rather than of someone looking for leisure and pleasure. She guesses the queen is, after all, just like everything else in this palace, warm, cozy and quiet, but ultimately sober. There’s satisfaction in the sight of a queen kneeling between her legs, though, and even if the woman offers her a disapproving look when Regina grabs her hair and pushes her face towards where she needs it most, Regina reaches her peak of pleasure with a sigh of contentment. The reciprocating climax she offers the queen is equally unemotional and Regina, who has been doing her best at keeping Maleficent away from her thoughts, fails miserably at her task. Maleficent is a tough act to follow, after all, her exuberance, her freedom and her ravenous search for pleasure perhaps qualities that Regina will never find in a lover again.

Regina finishes her drink once she realizes that she’s not particularly interested in a repeat performance of the mockery of passion she’s just shared with the queen, sitting herself by the vanity with her dress haphazardly thrown over her front while still open in the back. She stares at her reflection, noting that not even her hair looks remarkably out of place, and that her lips, which so very easily bruise under ardent kissing, are already starting to lose their newfound puffiness. She’s strangely frustrated by the whole situation; somehow she’d hoped that chosen lovers would always bring her something precious to hold on to, rather than a simple sense of sufficient release. She’s always been all or nothing in her sexual encounters, and she’s inclined to believe that she will never be able to survive with this kind of boring middle ground.

“You seem brooding,” Queen Catherine tells her from her spot on the bed.

Regina catches her eyes through the mirror, observes that she has already covered herself with her soft bedspread. In the low light of the room and after discovering her body, Regina finds her older, and not quite as enchanting as she had before. Nonetheless, she gives her a soft smile, and dismisses her worries with a simple platitude even as she starts fixing the back of dress enough so that she can make her way back to her own bedchambers, and get some proper sleep. A bath, perhaps, she muses.

As Regina is getting ready to leave, though, Queen Catherine begins talking, her speech suddenly taking a surprising turn towards the dynamics of her own family. Paying a modicum of attention, Regina listens as the queen tells her about a council that wishes her gone, and that has been pressing for her step-son to fill his rightful place as king. Perhaps that’s the main reason the queen has been looking for a husband, after all, but Regina can’t have respect for a woman who can’t hold the reins of her own advisors. Still, Catherine’s tale of woe continues with her wish to see her step-son gone and her own son crowned, so as to keep her own blood in the royal line, and herself as a true royal advisor.

“That fool I have for a step-son will keep us away from power as soon as he’s crowned, I’m sure,” the queen says, and for the first time since they’ve met, Regina sees true fury behind her placid eyes. It’s more invigorating than any other expression she’s seen in Catherine before, and it feels as if she’s finally showing her true colors.

As for her speech, Regina isn’t sure Catherine is particularly correct. So far as Regina’s seen, the princes treat each other as true brothers, share their interests and easily consult each other in every other matter. Perhaps it’s the queen who is the odd one out, and the one wishing for a breach to appear in the otherwise brotherly affection her children share. Whatever the case, Regina’s not interested in this kingdom’s internal affairs, and she’s getting ready to express as much when Queen Catherine says what she has perhaps been meaning to say all along.

“And advantageous marriage for my son will put the council in his good graces, surely,” she says, and goodness but she’s actually trying to play coy as she says this. “It just occurred to me to–”

Regina cuts her speech sharply, her tone brokering no argument when she enunciates her next words, “Your son will not have Snow White for a wife, so you may as well stop your pleading now.” Then, and with a hiss permeating her voice, “You might have saved us this waste of time had you spoken up sooner, Your Majesty.”

Regina is still looking at her through the mirror, and the image makes for something jarring, even otherworldly. She sees Queen Catherine’s expression change, her fury deepening her scowl, a sneer marring her features. Regina is fully unimpressed, though, her own anger far more robust than anything the other woman has to offer. She seethes, thinking that she has fallen prey to a game that she may have played herself on a different situation; she’s been bedded and fooled into a seemingly vulnerable position, and all because this woman needs Snow White’s precious hand to make a case for her son’s power. She feels foolish, and she wants to get out of this chamber as fast as possible, so she begins gathering her loose skirts and making quick work of the fastenings of her dress, now truly wishing for that bath.

However, as she busies herself with putting herself together, Queen Catherine doesn’t relent, but rather moves from her prone position and, after wrapping herself in a thick robe, stands proudly in between Regina and the door. The sight of her, while perhaps not as impressive as that of an unwanted husband or a capricious magical teacher, proves to be enough to make Regina feel caged, trapped in the small space between the bed and the vanity, and it makes fury flare up inside her, her magic beginning to unfurl from the back of her neck and making its way to her hands. She holds it in, tells herself that she won’t waste energy on this woman, and instead simply chooses to stand tall and haughty, her eyes piercing as they don’t shy away from Queen Catherine’s derisive stare.

“I wasn’t pleading with you, Regina,” Catherine says, and despite her demeanor, her tone is precariously smooth, as if trying to calm a furious beast. “I have spoken with your husband, and he seems amenable to my proposal.”

That, more than anything, feels like a betrayal. The queen has surely and effectively played with all of her defenses to the point of going behind her back and offering leverage and power to good old King Leopold, denying Regina in ways that are beyond her own understanding. Regina breathes out, and her breathing is hard, ragged, savagely irate. She will not stand for this.

“What was this then, if I may ask?” she wonders, biting the words as she points between the queen and herself. There was no point to this seduction if the queen was already handling her dealings with the king after all, and she can’t help but feel that this was nothing but further humiliation, a way to knock her down a peg, put her in her place as a young and power-hungry girl with no real advantages.

“This was just… pleasure. I do enjoy your company.” A smile, hidden in the words, and Regina wants nothing more than to punch it out of them. Instead, she huffs out a laugh.

“Pleasure? You know nothing of _pleasure._ ”

Following her statement, Regina tries to make her escape. She can be in this chamber no longer, needs to leave before the magic conquering her limbs manages to cloud her senses enough for her to do something hasty that she will regret. She tells herself that there are ways to solve this, and that all she needs is to take a calming bath and think things through, talk Leopold out of whatever agreement Catherine may have roped him into and leave this inconsequential kingdom behind them forever. It will be easy and swift, nothing compared to the feats she has accomplished in other courts, with the work she has put on her kingdom’s own internal affairs, and certainly nothing that she will have to worry herself after tonight. With carefully woven words, too, she’s sure she can make King George take his favor away from Queen Catherine, and thus punish her for her insulting humiliation.

Regina takes sure steps towards the door, effectively sidestepping Catherine’s figure. Her ears feel full of noise, and the rustling sound of her own dress is foreign and faraway, almost dreamlike in its hazy quality. The door seems a long way away even when it’s not, and it’s almost as if the path lengthens the moment Catherine stops her movement with a hand curled on Regina’s arm. The touch burns, and Regina shakes it off violently.

“ _Don’t_ touch me,” she growls.

Catherine puts both her hands down, keeping them away from Regina’s figure, and when she speaks, she does it softly and with a hint of intimacy in her voice. “I meant no offense, Regina; it wasn’t my intention to fool you into anything.” Her posture then changes, loses tension and defiance, turns into something almost relaxed. “I merely chose to do what I must; I know you want to break the rules of the world. You’re young, after all, who can blame you? But we are meant to be shadows behind our husbands and sons, otherwise we are… well, honestly we are weak.”

Catherine’s wording is the nail that seals the coffin, managing to focus Regina’s senses into one single intent. It fires her up, and before she can even register her own movements, she finds herself reaching forward, her hand buried deep within Catherine’s chest and her heart tightly pressed by her strong fingers. Catherine sags forward against Regina, out of breath and unable to speak, looking at Regina’s arm disappearing inside her with wide, incredulous eyes. Regina holds her up but doesn’t remove her heart, rather squeezing it as it remains inside her, and the sound of pain that accompanies her torture is almost a balm against her unhinged spirit.

Leaning closer to Catherine’s heavy figure, she presses dry lips to her ear and mouths, “I am not weak.”

Her hand crushes the fragile heart resting in her palm viciously, slow enough that a trail of deep, red blood pours from the corners of the queen’s mouth and trails its way down her chin and jaw. When a drop of sticky blood stains the bottom of Regina’s dress, she grunts with disgust, and pushing Catherine’s body away, she’s left with only dust in her closed fist as the queen drops to the floor, heavy and ungraceful in her death as Regina suspects she was never in life. She cuts quite the pathetic figure, her body bent at an awkward angle on the chamber’s floor, with her robe half opened to reveal her nudity.

“Now look what you made me do,” Regina murmurs, looking at the woman with a sneer in her face.

She stares at her for another minute, her own body calming down from the madness of her own magic, now swirling down her arms in tingling waves. She licks her lips, aware of her own breathing coming out in ragged pants, and tries to shake herself out of her stupor. Once she doesn’t feel as if burning down the palace around her might be the answer to all of her problems, she’s respectful enough to cover the late queen’s nakedness, closing up her robe with nimble and firm hands. Kneeling by her, and with her hands now away from her body, Regina looks at her face one last time, fixates on the unnecessarily spilled blood, and can’t help the scowl that mars her features. She’d hoped to find a friend in this disgraced queen, and all she has left now is anger and disdain. The sight of her is both disheartening and foul, and right after Regina transports herself out of the queen’s bedchambers and into her own, she closes her eyes tightly as she presses both hands to her own stomach, and doing her best to vanish the image from her head, she wills herself not to be sick.

 

* * *

 

The months that follow their visit to the late Queen Catherine’s kingdom pass slowly, a heavy and extremely cold winter keeping them cooped up inside the palace and busying themselves with the most mindless of tasks. Regina finds that she doesn’t mind the already familiar and boring work that the coldest season brings with it, the recounting of stock around the kingdom so as to assure that resources will last them through the winter automatic and asinine enough that she barely has to pay attention. She knows they did good work during crop season, and that the kingdom won’t go hungry, so she finds herself going through the motions without enthusiasm or particular interest. She’s mildly thankful for the fact that most of her tasks these days involve the Treasury Master, who is perhaps her favorite member of the council, too old to be unpleasant, tired enough to leave important decisions to her, but a master in his trade so that Regina can lean on his knowledge.

Most of her efforts these days are directed towards her own slowly growing militia, efforts that prove to be a constant source of frustration. It seems that people around the kingdom aren’t particularly keen on accepting authority figures clad in black garb rather than in the white crests of King Leopold’s army, and even if Regina has given her own men positions all over the lands, they’re seeing themselves constantly undermined by the presence of Leopold’s own knights. She pushes still for the rightful place of her army, and makes sure to keep a steady growth in the number of men at her service, but the Military Advisor proves to be a thorn in her side. While he’s given into her wishes on occasion, he’s obviously discomfited by the idea of a woman dealing with any aspect of military decisions, and he still favors Leopold’s indecisive hand over her own purposeful one.

Nevertheless, these matters keep her busy and moving, which she desperately needs. Their visit to Catherine’s kingdom and the consequences of her short-lived affair with the late queen have left her feeling bereft, even when she’s not particularly sure of what. The first few days after the queen had been found dead had been confusing and hectic, and plagued by her wishes to abandon the kingdom as soon as possible and never return. Of course, Snow had pressed for them to stay long enough to pay their respects to the suddenly deceased queen, and they had remained trapped in that too small palace for as long as a fortnight, the last night of their visit being that of the coronation of the new king of the land. Regina had done her part dutifully, expressing exaggerated surprise over the queen’s demise, claiming that they had been in their way towards an intimate friendship, crying against Snow’s supportive shoulder and even allowing Leopold to hold her for longer than he’d ever had before.

The business of the supposed marriage arrangement between Snow and the queen’s son had been swiftly solved once the council had declared Catherine’s step-son as the rightful heir, a decision that had been applauded by his brother without a sigh of envy or distrust in his demeanor, thus proving the queen’s fear foolish and Regina’s appraisement of their brotherly relationship true. Whatever the case, Regina shouldn’t have worried, since Leopold had very quickly declared that he hadn’t actually agreed to have his daughter married, not when he’d considered her entirely too young for such matters, a statement that had made Regina scowl in his presence for as long as the visit had lasted. He’d looked confused by her disposition, and when Regina had sharply reminded him of the fact that Snow was as old as she’d been when he’d taken her for a wife, he’d blanched and stumbled out of the room, shame burning up his otherwise pale cheeks.

Regina has been feeling discomfited since they came back, though, vexed in ways that she doesn’t fully understand. There is something brimming under her skin, wild and not entirely uncomfortable, manageable and dull but ever-present. It’s something like an itch, a ring of shivering excitement burning her up, begging her to allow herself freedom. Freedom for what, she’s not sure either. Perhaps it’s simply freedom of everything and everyone around her, of this prison that she has shaped to her tastes and made her own, but that remains a prison still, this palace where she is owned by everyone and everything, where she must play pretend so her wishes are granted.

Thinking that her anxiousness may come from stifled sexual desire now that her most basic instincts have been rekindled, she chooses to take on a lover on occasion. She chooses them carefully and deliberately, more over their status and her knowledge of their discretion than over any sort of attraction, thus making her efforts fruitless and a new source of frustration. Her first choice is a man, her latest her experience with the queen making her shy away from women for a while, and Duke Jasper being valiant, handsome and brash enough not to bore Regina with talks she doesn't wish to have. He's older than her too, but merely by a decade, and he's a generous bedfellow, thankful for her favor but ultimately boring once Regina has had him three nights in a row. She feeds him a forgetting potion watered down in a cupful of wine on their third night together, and easily bids him goodbye. Her next two choices bring her back towards women, and she finds that she enjoys softer curves better than sharp angles, even if her encounters leave her equally frustrated and saying goodbye to lovers who forget her by virtue of her magic. She finds no peace of mind in sharing her bed with people she has no real interest in beyond the sudden spike of too short-lived pleasure, and finds that the risk of being found out is simply not worth the effort. She unwittingly thinks of Daniel, whose arms had made facing mother's wrath a small feat, and of Maleficent, whose embrace had been tempting enough to almost make her leave her kingdom behind. There is nothing for her in mindless rumps, it seems, and so her senses aren't abated by sensuous encounters.

A sign that she’s surely coming undone is the fact that she chooses to stop hiding her magic from both father and her lady’s maid, as she finds herself relaying on it for common tasks. After all, why bother her severe woman with silly things such as lighting fires in her room or heating up water for her baths when she can accomplish such inconsequential chores with a flick of her wrist? Father blanches at her blatant disregard for common courtesy when she stops veiling her powers for his benefit, but she makes a point of normalizing them in his eyes, making sure that she uses her power in neutral ways that couldn’t possibly bring back memories of mother’s cruel hands. He doesn’t like it, Regina can tell, but she can no longer separate herself from her magic, no more than she could possibly separate herself from one of her limbs.

Magic, which had been a source of irritation for years, and which had made her question her own path for long, silent hours, has become a part of her own nature in ways that Regina would have never guessed at when she’d first found Rumpelstiltskin. She’s been at times afraid of it, cautious on other occasions, and most times simply angry when it refused to answer to her wishes, but then, magic had been a foreign sort of energy that she could call forth when she willed it hard and intentionally enough, a force to battle and bend to her desires. And she had, but that hadn’t stopped it from being alien to her essence. For a long time now, however, magic has been as much a part of her as her own arms and legs, no longer an external source of power but a sixth sense sitting comfortably at the back of her neck, coming forward without need for calculation when Regina wills it so.

“The true roots of magic, dearie,” Rumpelstiltskin had said when she’d asked about her feelings on the matter, right before launching into a long-winded speech full of gibberish and ugly giggles that Regina had stopped listening to halfway through.

As interested as Regina has always been on the true nature of magic, she can’t say that Rumpelstiltskin has proven to be a particularly good teacher of theoretical subjects. While he’s taught her the practical side of her gift, his words about the truth of magic have always been deliberately confusing, and have usually contradicted themselves to the point where Regina has simply chosen to use books as her reference rather than her tutor.

Whatever the case, Rumpelstiltskin hasn’t been much of a teacher anymore for over two years now, rather turning himself into a dealer of dark arts and a last resource for Regina. He no longer gives his lessons freely, but rather turns them into business transactions, asking for what Regina had once thought were inconsequential pieces of her everyday life. He’d soon realized that Regina wouldn’t part with Daniel’s ring, and had allowed his interest in the small circle of metal that usually rested between Regina’s breasts wane, instead asking for what Regina had thought were random payments from her. From locks of hair to pieces of clothing and even going through odd requests such as an apple from her tree, Regina had thought Rumpelstiltskin 's petitions odd and out of the blue, as if he was making things up as he went. The deeper her own magical knowledge went, though, the more she’d realized how easily personal objects could be used against her, and she’d realized how much power she may have unwittingly given Rumpelstiltskin over her own person by offering up such parts of herself. This, of course, had made her reduce her time with the imp, and these days find them being partners in crime, rather than teacher and student.

She finds, though, that her feelings for her former teacher are far clearer than they were in the past, her heart beating with rage whenever he is around. Watching him deal, tease and taunt for years has opened up her eyes to the truths of Rumpelstiltskin, and even when she’s never trusted him fully, she now knows that there isn’t a smidgeon of compassion in him, and that whatever sigh of pride, humanity or kindness he may have showed her in the past has been nothing but a step in an otherwise unknown and long-term plan. She is no longer a wide-eyed girl with utter need for his guidance, though, and not only does she have no wish to follow his lead or trust him in any way, but she finds herself desperately wanting to best him at his own game, proving to him that the student has surpassed the master. She has no doubt, too, that she will accomplish such a feat, for there isn't a game that Regina hasn't learnt how to win thus far.

 

* * *

 

The first days of spring make Regina wish she could be out and about, taking lazy strolls around the gardens or maybe even visiting the neighboring villages and smelling the renewed flowery scent of the fresh air. Instead, she finds herself cooped up inside the palace, following on the latest business and planning a visit to King George’s kingdom, as well as preparing the by now customary celebration of Snow’s birthday. Snow will be nineteen this year, Regina’s own twenty six already heavy around her shoulders, and prompting the court to comment discouragingly on the lack of children produced by her marriage to Leopold. She has managed to place most of the guilt on Leopold’s coldness towards her, and while most noblemen seem happy to buy the tales she’s been selling for years now, the odd rumor of Regina’s barren and inadequate body resurfaces every once in a while, unfailingly prompting Regina into bouts of severe depression that find her scratching at her belly, at a scar that should have been long forgotten but that is never as far from her mind as she wants it to be.

Snow’s birthday celebrations are always a trigger for this kind of commentary, the princess’ own age perhaps a reason for the court to wish for a new royal child in their midst. Truthfully, most noblemen probably expect Snow to be married soon, and are perhaps more than ready to give up on Regina’s never happening offspring in exchange for Snow’s future children. In this particular subject, though, her family seems to be in accordance with her, Leopold thinking of Snow as his little girl still, and wishing her unmarried, and Snow having lost all interest in flirting and notions of love after her ill-fated encounter with Prince Richard, whose heart still rests among Regina’s possessions.

Thinking of Snow growing older, though, and in a furious attempt at keeping some of her infantile thoughts yet, Regina is having a small replica of the palace built for her as a gift, the mockery of a doll’s house that may call to Snow’s childish instincts. Regina is even constructing the small dolls to go with it herself, her fingers still clumsy with thread and needle between them, but her demeanor stubborn enough to keep at her task. It’s a lovely afternoon outside that finds her stabbing an ugly looking Leopold doll while sitting under her apple tree, the smell of freshly cut grass and apples in the air not enough to stop her wishes of making a token out of this doll that may somehow hurt the man when she stabs the cotton between her fingers. She’s so focused on her task that she almost misses one of her black guards coming over to her with a stack of missives directed at her, both official and not. She bites a thank you at him, though, and soon finds herself distracted by letters and abandoning her mindless sawing work with something like relief.

Regina has a steady correspondence with most neighboring rulers by now, as well as with most influential noblemen from Leopold’s own kingdom. Of course, her official dispatches have never been enough to quell her thirst for information, and she also has a web of spies with missing hearts that send word to her regularly about the comings and goings of the different lands that surround them. This particular correspondence she manages through her own black knights, knowing fairly well that Leopold keeps a watchful eye over her official letters, never mind that his drive comes from jealousy and possessiveness rather than actual worry at her political manipulations. She should be glad of this fact, but it will never cease to incense her ire that the man seems to think of her as such an inconsequential, dim-witted little girl that he must only worry of her possible unfaithfulness, despite her current ruling of his own kingdom.

The stack of letters today brings one from Prince Bernard, and she picks that one first, if only because she knows it will bring a smile to her face. His words are always short and to the point, unveiling a distracted and restless character, and they always bring with them a gift in the form of sweet and foreign treats. This time, he’s sent a box of _ghribat,_ a chocolate covered kind of sweet that Regina had once told him was her favorite. He’s been asking after the names and recipes of his gifts at her request, and the letter brings with it specific instructions for the reproduction of the delicious treats. Regina makes sure to keep it somewhere safe so that she can transcribe a copy and pass it to the cooks, smiling warmly as she takes a single candy from the gifted box and then closes it, so as to stop herself from finishing it all up in one single sitting. Prince Bernard never fails to make something cozy wrap around her middle, perhaps a long lost hope for the kindness in this world. There’s a part of her that keeps expecting Bernie to disappoint her, specially as the years go by and he grows up into a man with expectations and desires, but the little prince she remembers from that one visit so long ago seemingly stays as charming as ever, prompting her to favor him as she does few people in her life. Just now, as she enjoys her sweet with gusto, she finds herself thinking of what gift she might send back for him, if perhaps some of those hazelnuts covered in layers of milky chocolate that they have been keeping in the kitchens as of late might do the trick.

Regina continues with her reading then, easily favoring the activity over her tiring work on stupid birthday dolls. A rather harried and short letter signed by King George surprises her, the few sentences speaking of a sudden outbreak of an unheard of disease certainly not demanding the unexpected urgency that the missive suggests. Spreading diseases aren’t particularly rare, not when cleanliness is always an issue within certain small populations, but they aren’t usually anything to worry about, and are very easily quelled by the knowledge of local physicians and old family wives, most of which have seen many a sickness in their time. Why George would think it necessary to warn Regina of an outbreak as far away from her own kingdom as this she doesn’t know, but she can’t help but keep a minimum of awareness about it. Coming from someone else she may have dismissed it, but George is entirely too practical to make a fuss over a few dead peasants.

Soon enough, though, it’s made apparent to her why George considered these news important. The news from all surrounding kingdoms touch on the very same subject, making her realize that this may go beyond a simple bout of strong fever in a small and controlled area. She realizes that there have been outbreaks in all but two of the kingdoms surrounding theirs, and as soon as Regina is done with her letters, she finds herself angrily stalking her way into the Royal Doctor’s quarters, searching for answers. The man has been outspokenly against her for as long as they’ve known each other, and she wouldn’t put it past both him and Leopold to hide this kind of information from her and the council.

The doctor refuses answering her at first, his pompous little face set in the haughtiest of sneers, thinking himself above her by simple virtue of his professional practice. He has been the one member of the council who hasn’t fallen prey to her charms, and Regina has always hated that the man has seen her at her most vulnerable. After all, aside from father and Leopold, he is the only person in court to know about her lost baby, and the monthly revisions Leopold had forced on her at the beginning of their marriage have certainly made the man privy to Regina’s most private self. Every time he looks upon her, appraising and insulting with his nose high up in the air, Regina can’t help but be reminded of the fact that he’s seen her naked and hurting, memories that only manage to make her defensive when they’re forced to share a room. The man has been even more deliberately against her ever since she stopped their routine visits, and has turned progressively unpleasant at her rejection of imaginary treatments that he randomly comes up with. The doctor is adamantly convinced that she suffers from some unknown type of hysteria, a mental illness that he wants to drive away from her, but Regina has steadfastly denied his intentions of eliminating noxious humors from her by a continuous schedule of blood-letting, causing him to be even more convinced of her supposedly unbalanced nature.

It takes a masterful combination of wheedling and self-righteous anger to get the doctor to answer her questions, a game of push and pull that leaves Regina frustratingly exhausted. Finally, though, he confesses to similar outbreaks occurring within their kingdom, and even as he denies their importance with dismissive words, Regina spies fear in the sweat blotching his forehead and the jerkiness of his otherwise sluggish movements.

Soon enough, the doctor’s suggested fear proves to be correctly founded, preoccupation and anguish coming to them from all around the kingdom. Disease keeps spreading, most physicians finding themselves stumped and loosing ten people for every single one they manage to save. Letters come speaking of the black death that has fallen upon the lands, superstitious words claiming the work of dark magic. While Regina knows this to be untrue, she wishes it would be real, for she may just have a solution were the problem magical. As it is, they find themselves swamped by an unstoppable and unsolvable pandemic, helpless in the face of such an unknown ailment.

It is Baron Edgar who calls an emergency meeting of the council, ready to put their heads together so as to at least stop the spread and protect as many people as they can. Regina is already thinking far ahead, considering not only the amount of people that they may lose, but how much the reservoirs of the kingdom might suffer, particularly if the working people are more preoccupied with crying their loses than with working the soil for the upcoming cold seasons. Disregarding her concerns, though, Regina does her best at informing herself completely of what little they have learned of this epidemic, so as to provide the helping hand she must be for the council. Gathering missives from other kingdoms and what little the doctor has reported after he confessed to knowing of the beginning of the spread, she discerns that this sickness isn’t extremely different from many other fevers known around the realm, its symptoms ranging from high temperatures to muscle cramps, chills and general ill feelings. The most peculiar sign the infected show is strange black swellings and gangrened extremities, the thought of which gives her nightmares from the moment she begins picturing what they may be up against. Most deaths happen within a week after the first symptoms appear, and physicians seem puzzled as to why some people escape a deathly fate while other perish swiftly.

Armed with as much knowledge as she can, Regina makes her way to the Council Room only to be received by a headless meeting, King Leopold nowhere to be seen. The rest of the council members look as surprised as she herself is, but she is the only one who harbors enough anger within her to go in search of the lost king. A few well posed questions lead her to the throne room, where Leopold, old and defeated, sits with an air of complete abandon, both his crown and an empty glass of what Regina guesses is rum resting by his side on a small table, his hand holding the glass and disregarding the headdress. Regina looks at the ornamental gold piece and is mildly thankful that the man has chosen to take it off himself - otherwise, Regina may have found herself crazy enough to rip it from his undeserving head.

Leopold lifts his head when he finally spies her inside the room, and it seems as if he doesn’t even have the strength to express the usual sigh of revulsion that his eyes haven’t been able to hide for years now. Instead, he merely shrugs his shoulders, and looking down at the floor rather than at her accusing eyes, he says, “My kingdom is dying.”

Regina scoffs, unforgiving in her judgment, and questions, “And what will you do about it, oh magnanimous King Leopold?”

He flinches visibly, more obviously than usual due perhaps to the drinks he’s been having, or perhaps simply because he’s entirely given up cloaking his discomfort. He doesn’t even pretend to be fighting, and with a second shrug, intones, “There is nothing for me to do.”

Regina feels her fingers crack with tension, not sure what it is she wishes to do to this man before her, this man that has claimed the deserted island between her legs so many times, this man who has been given a crown and a expanse of land when he deserves nothing, this privileged heavy lump who knows nothing of hard work, who has lost nothing but a wife that he never knew how to forget, and who is willing to give up at the first sign of difficulty. She wants to throttle him, kill him, slap his face and feel the comforting weight of his heart in her hand. She wonders, given the dire situation the kingdom finds itself in, whether anyone would bother to miss him at all were he to die today, or whether the tragedy around them would simply swallow whatever remorse there might be over the king’s death. She savors the latter idea with satisfaction, and that’s enough to calm her senses and make her expression settle easily into disdain.

“For once in your life, Leopold, you are right,” she says, enunciating his name with affectation, her tone dripping scorn and ridicule. Then, she declares, “There is nothing for _you_ to do.”

Regina leaves the room with swift steps and a newfound determination, leaving Leopold to his wallowing and not sparing another second of thought on the weakened man. She finds her way back to the Council Room, and is received with surprised silence upon her kingless return. She dismisses the alarm that has taken over the room quickly, and with secure movements, pulls Leopold’s empty seat away from the table, and stands in its place, tall and proud in her position as rightful queen. When she finds ten odd looks thrown her way, she unwittingly stands up straighter and holds her chin up higher, making her attitude make up for the lack of physical height these men before her surely count as a disadvantage.

Finding herself sufficiently settled in her role, she says, “The king finds himself indisposed at this very moment; we shall begin without him.”

The men grant her a reprieve that lasts a surprised second, enough for them to fully register the meaning of her words. Then, the protests come loud and clear. Regina scoffs, a part of her having held onto the hopes that they would be smart enough to quench their judgmental worries and simply allow her to claim the position that is rightfully hers. She would wring all of their necks if she could, these men that have so willingly heard and followed her words when she’s spoken to them outside of this chamber and that now act as if she’s completely unprepared to lead them. Still, she allows them a moment of confusion to pose their preoccupations loudly and without any order, and then promptly quiets them down by bringing both hands to the table harshly, the sound of her palms smacking the wood echoing inside the small chamber.

“ _Enough,_ ” she states, cold calmness easily entering her tone. “Gentlemen, we have a crisis in our hands, and in the absence of the king, you must answer to me; if you wish to spend your time puffing out your chests in some foolish mockery of proud peacocks I will most certainly not stand by to witness it.”

Most men remain quiet in the face of her cold ire, even going back to sitting down after standing up in the middle of their furious and thoughtless protests. The Treasury Master is the first to concede, and is quickly followed by Baron Edgar and two others. The Military Advisor grumbles under his breath but fails to defy her, and the Master of Ships has the gall to wink at her as he sits on his official chair with the air of a patronizing overlord. Regina keeps an eye for the Royal Doctor, patiently waiting for him to pose further protest, but he surprises her by lowering his head in the face of her harsh stare. His hands, which have been holding papers detailing the situation within the kingdom, have been shaking impossibly for a long while now, and perhaps the man is worried enough to acquiesce to whatever authority that may tell him what they can possibly do to fight against their undefeated enemy. Soon enough, only Regina and the Law Advisor remain standing, the latter fixing her with a gaze worthy of a fighting bull, unrelenting and aggressive. Regina doesn’t cower before him, though, and merely lifts a defiant eyebrow when he refuses to back down from his apparent rebellion.

“Surely the situation isn’t so dire that we are forced to listen to a little girl who thinks too highly of herself,” he says finally, breaking away from her gaze so he can address the rest of the men of the council.

Regina smirks when the man finds himself alone in his protest, the rest of the members of the council smart enough to keep whatever derisive thoughts they may hold about Regina’s authority to themselves. This only incenses the Law Advisor further, it seems, and when his eyes search for Regina’s again his expression has nothing but amused mockery to show her. Perhaps Regina should blame herself for this reaction; after all, she’s always played the dumb girl for this man, helping him along in his efforts to take a peek at the hidden treasures of her cleavage. However, a man of his station should have known better than to buy so far into her game that he thinks her unsuited enough for the job of ruler so as to oppose her so openly and with such lack of respect.

Regina, finding whatever smidgeon of fun she can in the man’s defiance, turns his way, head high and body on display, the dress she has chosen today doing wonders to highlight the curves of her breasts and hips. It’s a posture that the Law Advisor will undoubtedly associate to her posing some obvious and silly question, the way she has been doing for years now when dealing with him, playing the eternal dim-witted child so as to make him feel superior enough to blindly confide in her without being fully aware of it.

She blinks owlishly, lowering her lashes slowly and prettily, and looking at the man with big, open eyes, asks, “What do you propose we do then, my lord?”

A smug smile quickly adorns the man's thick lips, and thinking himself the sure winner of this battle, he says, “We must appoint a leader amongst ourselves until the king is well enough to join our deliberations.”

Regina snorts at the proposition, as obvious as it is insulting, and paying no mind to whatever reaction the Law Advisor’s words may have caused on the rest of the men, she leans forward, both her hands on the table and her eyes settled once again on the man’s contemptuous stare.

“And you truly believe that any of you old fools might make a better leader than your queen?”

That prompts a heartfelt laugh in the man, full and loud where he’s usually soft-spoken and mellow. “Your Majesty, it is far from my intentions to question your title, but surely you more than anyone know than, rather than politics, your talents lay in… _other areas._ ”

The insinuation of his words is so brazenly disrespectful that Regina doesn’t have to imagine a collective gasp conquering the room. Many of the men in the room have been quick to disregard her opinions or simply forget her words, but none of them would dare word such a blatant offense to the royal figure that she represents, whether she has an actual intelligence to go with her title or not. The Law Advisor must clearly think less of her than she had initially guessed at, though, if the satisfied expression marring his features is anything to go by. Regina says nothing to his insinuation, though, merely holding his arrogant gaze with her own hard and unwavering one, breathing slowly and letting silence stretch among them. The air feels heavier the longer they maintain their eyes locked together, Regina smelling the scent of her own magic easily, doing nothing more than pressing an invisible and unexplained strain in everyone present in the room. The Law Advisor doesn’t falter, though, or at least he doesn’t at first. In the face of her quiet scrutiny, though, he begins to waver, his shoulders growing tense and his hands becoming suddenly fidgety. Regina lets him stew, her own disposition resolute as he falls apart completely, his eyes suddenly shifting from side to side and refusing to meet hers again. She waits until he’s taken a step back and away from the table, his hands coming up to chest high and showing her his open palms, as if trying to calm down a pouncing beast rather than a girl that he has belittled as little more than a whore not a few minutes before. Once she’s thoroughly satisfied with his discomfort, she calls to the ever present shadow that is her black guard, not bothering to look behind her as she gives her orders.

“Rivers, please escort my lord to the dungeons.”

The Law Advisor spites meaningless protests, but his big and old frame poses no threat to her own guard, and quickly enough the man’s words are drowned by distance as he is dragged away forcibly.

Regina has time for one last remark, though, and so before both men are completely out of the room, she commands, “Rivers, do gag our esteemed Advisor if he fails to quiet down; we can’t have an important figure of the court humiliating himself by spewing such vitriol about his rightful queen.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” comes the quick and steady reply.

The moment both men leave the room, Regina turns back to the rest of the men of the council, and finds herself standing up straight without much of an effort as soon as she spies the fearful and astonished expressions being thrown her way. She breathes in slowly, thriving in her control and in the inherent power of thoroughly surprising these so-called powerful men. Have they truly been so blind to the true nature of her character that the wielding of her authority surprises them so? They must have been, and presented by such unparalleled consternation, she feels like laughing. She refrains from such a gesture, but she can’t help the smirk that touches the corner of her lips, or the unbidden surge of pride burning up inside her belly, filling her up where she has so far been so utterly empty.

With a wave of her hand, as if to dismiss the little scene the Law Advisor has so unwittingly been a participant of, she wonders, “Shall we begin, gentlemen?”

 

* * *

 

Loathe as Regina is to admit that one of Leopold’s statements must be true, as the weeks pass around her and she grapples to figure out their situation, she must confess that perhaps he hadn’t been entirely wrong when he’d said that his kingdom was dying. Never before has Regina seen so much loss work its way so fast through the lands, and to such a wasteful and negligible thing as decease. War may perhaps be pointless, but at least there is always a winning side at the end of a deathly scuffle; no one wins here, though, no kings or queens will come victorious out of this battle.

Regina does her best, though, keeping up a steady trickle of information of the devastation that the sickness is causing, and applying what little knowledge she has to try and stop it however she can. Most physicians seem to concur that cleanliness and proper nutrition are major necessities when it comes to curing patients, and while Regina can’t do a lot to assure the healing of those already infected, she can direct her efforts to stopping the spread. Keeping that in mind, she sets ten main points around the kingdom were whoever is affected must be moved to, so as to keep the infection away from all populations, and in order to keep physician’s efforts focused on little locations. People resist her orders, but armed with a newly coined personal seal, Regina passes a Royal Decree and gives her Black Knights the right to drag the population to where they need to be. Stories of her cruelty at separating families reach her ears soon enough, but she can’t be worried about such trifle matters when she’s the only one actively trying to save this kingdom.

When the first noblemen start falling ill, panic spreads like wildfire. Somehow, noblemen across the lands had assumed that they were safe by mere virtue of their money and privilege, as if somehow disease had any way of knowing that riches equal a superior station in life. Regina wants to be scornful and disdainful, but the outbreak among the ruling class worries her, for if the condition is ailing well-fed and well-protected houses, then surely the situation is even direr than she had initially guessed at. The council, though, proves to be more preoccupied with shallow matters, exhorting her to send gifts to the mourning royal families, as if that will somehow solve any of their actual problems. Regina refuses them, ordering caution and severity in the use of their resources, understanding easily that they may be facing a longer crisis than they can perhaps anticipate. She’s constantly worried about such matters, truth be told, and she consequentially subjects the Treasury Master to a persistent persecution that has the man on edge and showing signs of permanent exhaustion. Regina can’t allow herself to go easy on anyone, though, not even their eldest council member.

As soon as the first deaths happen among noblemen, Regina sends letters all around the lands, urging her court to remain strong and steady, and to help their surrounding populations as best as they can, sparing whatever resources they might posses in favor of helping local physicians, who seem to be constantly in need of supplies that Regina finds herself hard-pressed to provide. She has been forced to cut most merchant routes with her neighboring kingdoms, as well as to forbid the trading of linen and woolen goods in an effort to stop the spreading of the virus, and she finds herself lacking ideas as to how to provide that which is so desperately needed.

Despite her pleas, most noblemen are too scared to remain in their houses, and many flee to the palace, which so far has proved to be an unyielding fortress in keeping the disease away. The bravest of men stay behind while sending their women and children to be cared for by the king, but many leave most possessions behind and choose to come to the safe haven that Regina is forced to provide. Regina feels no regrets, then, when she orders her men to take whatever houses are free of their masters and use them for food and shelter, as well as to put the servants that are left behind to work on forgotten crop fields or to nurse the sick under the orders of physicians.

Finding the palace swamped by people, though, Regina sets the task of keeping them fed and sheltered in the hands of a willing Snow. She has been ready to provide help where her own father has been drunkenly hiding himself in his chambers for weeks now, and while Regina has been adamant about keeping her away from the Council Room, lest her own authority be undermined under the presence of Leopold’s heir, she is more than happy to provide her with a necessary activity that Regina can’t possibly handle herself.

“When was the last time you ate, Regina?” Snow questions one afternoon, her hand soft as it circles Regina’s wrist but adamantly steady in her grip, as if she spies Regina wanting to flee her presence.

Snow isn’t wrong if that is indeed her appraisal of Regina’s demeanor. Regina has been running around from place to place for weeks now, filled with nervous energy, her mind constantly abuzz, and the sudden stop paired with the softness of Snow’s voice is somewhat jarring. Truth be told, Snow has probably stopped her because Regina has just very publicly snapped at Baroness Irene, her idle prattle completely unbearable to her when there is a kingdom dying beyond their walls, a fact that the woman fails to grasp as she insists on tea parties and gossip, as if pregnancies and affairs are somehow important. Regina will probably come to regret such behavior, but as of now, she can’t bring herself to care.

“I’m fine, Snow,” she replies, absentminded but careful enough to accompany her answer with something close to a smile. She’s too tired for the gesture to be exaggeratedly high-spirited, but then no one expects her to be happy given their actual situation.

Snow lets her go, but before she does, she looks at her with something that Regina keeps spying in her eyes, something that wasn’t there before, and that settled in Snow’s lingering gazes back when they’d had that conversation where the princess had accused her or being insensitive. _Oh Regina, I do worry when you’re unkind,_ Snow had said, and Regina had dismissed her comment perhaps too hastily. There is something that feels like mistrust in Snow’s eyes, where there has only ever been reverence and curiosity before, and Regina wonders if Snow has finally found it in herself to question Regina’s feelings. Snow has always taken Regina’s actions at face value, and her ever eternal faith in the kindness of the world has probably never made her question whatever lack of truth may have lain inside Regina’s chest, but perhaps the princess is finally opening up her eyes to the reality that has always been before her. Has Snow grown self-aware, finally, or has Regina simply been slipping, her masks entirely too heavy to keep up? Perhaps, though, simply dealing with nobles who insist on being fed delicacies and being treated as guests rather than as refugees as the world collapses around them has made Snow begin to finally question the existence she has been carrying all along. Whatever answer Regina’s speculations may hold, she most certainly doesn’t like that Snow may be able to see through her barriers, even if a small part of her is somehow relieved that she might.

Dwelling in her feelings for Snow, though, is not something that Regina can afford right now, so she simply goes through her business, quickly forgetting whatever small interactions time affords them in the new and hectic world order they have been forced into. Later that same night, though, when father insists on her sitting down for a proper meal with a more stubborn set to his eyes than usual, Regina suspects that Snow has been sharing her concerns with him, a move that Regina might find herself proud of if only it didn’t play against her own desires. She refuses to eat, claiming lack of time while doing her best at ignoring father’s worried look, which somehow hurts more than whatever feelings of hunger she may be truly harboring.

As time moves around them, quick and frantic, Regina realizes that any difficult decision that must be taken invariably falls on her, inevitably gaining her a reputation that paints her as cold-hearted and inhuman, when in reality she is the only one ready to face facts for what they are. Her decree ordering the burning of the bodies of those killed by the plague raises more than one eyebrow, and a loud chant of protests from the council. No one seems to mind the fact that half buried bodies have been responsible for most of the latest outbreaks, and instead they all protest that families must be allowed to mourn their deceased loved ones as they so wish.

"There will be no one left to mourn when everyone is dead,” she argues back, her tone cold and tired, her body shagging with exhaustion even as she forces herself to stand tall. She has a feeling that these men will grasp at whatever sign of weakness they may spy on her to effectively undo the coup she has staged on a defeated King Leopold, and she can’t afford to give into her own tiredness before them.

“The bodies will burn,” is her final statement on the matter.

Regina is grateful that, protests aside, the men from the council have finally understood that she is not the same kind of leader that Leopold was. After all, the king has spent years allowing himself to be easily overruled by his own advisors, where Regina listens to them carefully and wages his opinions, but reserves for herself the ultimate right of making decisions. While this had sparked something close to a rebellion on their early days together, most of them acquiesce easily to her power the more time passes, whether because she has proven that she’s a worthy leader, or whether because they fear joining the Law Advisor in his long-term imprisonment in the dungeons Regina doesn’t know, and doesn’t particularly care.

Surprisingly enough, the Military Advisor has turned into her most outspoken supporter, where before he’d been so against her meddling in his affairs. As it is, though, when Leopold’s army had started a loud campaign of complaints at being side-lined in the new feral organization of the land, Regina had negotiated an agreement for them to become useful again so long as they conceded to leave Leopold’s crest behind and to outfit themselves with her own black garb. Most men hadn’t doubted for a minute, and that particular move had somehow earned her the respect of the Military Advisor, which had in exchange made Regina listen far more closely to his advice on the matters of logistics and the use of military strength. The man is, after all, the most knowledgeable person on the kingdom’s geography and strategic locations that she knows, so it isn't a hardship to trust his judgment now that he speaks to her openly and eagerly.

The longer the epidemic consumes them, the harshest Regina grows. Confronted with death, people have unsurprisingly turned to superstition and old tales, and the stories of witchcraft and dark curses that the plague brought with it have only worsened, conquering the weaker spirits of peasants. Suddenly, the population believes that walking around with flowers around their nose is a method to avoid illness, since it wards off the stench and the evil that afflicts the land. Preachers and false prophets surge seemingly out of nowhere, claiming they’re being punished by unknown gods for their sins, and most of them are quick to blame their rulers for their cruelty and misdemeanors being the origin of the consuming death. Regina orders instant execution of such characters, intent on stopping them from spreading fear and filthy lies into the ears of ignorant peasants.

Decrees such as the latter keep feeding her reputation of heavy-handed cruelty, and she realizes that the black garb of his knights has become something to be feared amongst the population. No one speaks of the many lives saved by her steady methods, of the hours she has spent pouring over physician's reports so as to stop the spread of the illness killing them with a hand harshest than Regina’s, or even of the fact that no one has gone hungry yet due to her mediating in the fair distribution of resources. Instead, she gets tainted as possessed by a demon when noblemen refuse to share their well-stocked pantries with their neighboring villages and Regina has their houses ransacked and burnt as punishment, gets looked upon with suspicious eyes when she refuses the entrance back into the villages to people visiting their loved ones in infected areas. Most rumors and commentaries go over Regina’s head, though, too busy making the decisions that no one wants to make and putting the work that no one wants to shuffle through.

In her mindlessness and constant craving of activity, Regina forgets to eat. It’s not something particularly strange, not when food has been such a source of distress during her life, and when her body has been trained before in staying reliably firm even through bouts of foodless days. A trained body and a busy mind don’t stop her from overindulging in her forgetfulness, though, and she finds herself running away from a council meeting when she realizes that she’s a breath away from passing out. She runs to her bedchambers, her hands shaky and her mind impossibly dizzy, sweat sticking her hair to her forehead and making her skin feel clammy and trapped inside her heavy dress. She hasn’t felt so distraught since her childhood days back at the manor, when it was mother’s hands controlling her habits, and not her own mindless head.

Father finds her hours later, laying down against soft and plush pillows after she’s treated herself to a bath, rather than to a meal. While a part of her craves food desperately, another part is convinced that her stomach won’t be able to accept anything, and that whatever little morsel she eats will inevitably make her sick. She’s not surprised, then, when father comes to her with a tray filled with warm smelling soup and some loaves of bread, a luxurious meal by the standards they have been keeping lately around the palace. Regina has been, after all, adamant in leading by example, and has banished obscenely large meals from the palace’s tables, making sure that their guests are well fed but not overly so, as they have been so terribly accustomed to. Snow had agreed with her on the matter, but she’d looked at her reprovingly when Regina had joked that many of their court members could afford to lose most of their weight anyway. The girl was developing the most annoying chiding tone to her voice, like that of an old mother already too tired to express her disapproval beyond a censuring _oh, Regina._

“Come and eat with me, _cielo,_ ” father requests, his voice low and soft as he sets a table for them.

Regina has half a mind to deny him, just out of a recently developed sense of childish rebellion against father’s quiet care. She feels like pushing him, finding out how much he can take, how far his patience goes. There’s an unrecognizable and sadistic instinct in her that wonders if father would ever stop her, berate her in any way if she went far enough in her tantrums. She’s stupendously tired though, and she’s thankful that father has chosen to share the meal with her rather than simply make her eat, probably knowing how much she hates being watched as she eats, as if she were an animal on display rather than a person. Heavily and with slow steps, she acquiesces to father’s request and sits by him, the warm scent of soup wafting up to her nostrils and making her stomach rumble. She smiles with something like shame, but father’s corresponding grin is nothing if not loving, a reminder of a past where all they had were secret meetings in Regina’s darkened rooms, where Regina could manage a sigh of simple happiness with nothing more than a piece of chocolate offered by father’s steady palm.

Gingerly, Regina takes a spoonful of soup, thankful that father has brought something soft and easy that her stomach probably won’t reject. A stronger aroma than she expected reaches her on her first taste of the heated up brew, the rich aftertaste that it leaves behind surprisingly pleasant. She looks at her empty spoon with bewilderment, and then at her father with the closest thing she has felt to amusement in what feels like months.

“Daddy, what did you do?” she asks.

“Red pepper flakes; gives it a little quick, wouldn't you agree?”

“Daddy!” Regina exclaims, berating and delighted in equal amounts.

Food has been an issue for a while, after all, and Regina has been severe in her prohibition of luxuries, considering how problematic trading has become since most routes have been closed for fear of spreading the virus further. Here father is, though, using rare spices on her food that are hard to come by on regular occasion, never mind in the situation they find themselves in.

“Don’t worry, _cielo,_ ” father replies, smooth and small even as he pats Regina’s still hand with soft fingers. “You deserve a little treat.”

Regina laughs, wholeheartedly agreeing with father and feeling herself give into the freedom of indulging in something warm and savory. She certainly deserves more than a little treat; she deserves a kingdom, revenge, ripped hearts and the tears of those who have wronged her, she deserves a mended heart and a radiant future, she deserves vibrant, incandescent and unbidden happiness. For now, though, she can accept something as simple and as reliable in its strength as a quiet and spicy meal with her father. Father, who has been pulling away from her in a way that has put a strain on their relationship, his constant and pervasive necessity to build himself down a hurtful and diminishing thorn in Regina’s opposing need of building herself up, but who remains, after all, her ever-loving father.

They eat heartily and silently, relishing the rare moment spent together. They barely do this anymore, not on normal circumstances and certainly not as of late, with Regina’s mind too busy to even remember that she must feed herself, and Regina has missed it. She’s not particularly sure about the reasons behind their slow separation, whether perhaps Regina holds more resentment over daddy’s inherent weakness than she can wrap her head around, or whether father has simply slipped so far into his role as valet that he has forgotten that he is her only true family. No matter the reasons, when they finish their meal and father reaches out for her hand and holds it with both his own, Regina can do nothing but sigh, weariness seeping into her body as if triggered by such a plain yet soothing touch. Mother’s physical affection had always been sparse and hard earned, but father had always been giving in that respect, and Regina suddenly realizes how lacking their relationship has been lately in the simplest of gestures that have always been so natural between them. Tiredly, with a bleak and daunting suddenness, Regina realizes that she has spent so long being a mysterious, strong and untouchable queen that she has forgotten how to be a daughter to this man who despite everything, loves her so unconditionally.

“Daddy, I’m so tired,” she says, exhaustion pulling from her and making her gravitate towards father’s frame until she’s nestled between his arms, her head tucked under his chin and resting on his narrow shoulder somewhat uncomfortably.

Father pulls her in, his scent and embrace familiar and dragging lost memories from her childhood forward with unbidden force. For a moment, Regina wishes that she could give up schemes and responsibilities and be that little girl that wanted nothing more than to spend a few hours riding atop _Rocinante_ and feeling the wind on her face. She’s not, though, can never be that girl again, not when the hands of dead lovers and unborn children keep dragging her down the only path that can possibly bring her any peace of mind, that can put her wounded heart at rest.

“ _Tienes que descansar, cielo,_ ” father murmurs, the lilting tone of his voice tangible enough that her eyelids close of their own volition, her body resting heavily against his. They’re sitting down, their embrace awkward at best, but Regina thinks that she could fall asleep just like this, mollified by father’s voice. **(1)**

“My little princess,” father coos, his voice now far away and dreamy, but not less of a calming balm on her senses. “ _Eres fuerte y hermosa y extraordinaria, pero también eres buena, cielo._ Remember that sometimes, remember that you are good.”  **(2)**

Regina doesn’t know why father would possibly say that to her now, not when the whole kingdom is calling her wicked and cruel, when she’s proving that a ruling hand sometimes needs to be a harsh hand. He repeats his statement, though, and sleepily, Regina searches for reassurance that she suddenly, desperately needs, and wonders, “Am I, daddy? Am I really?”

And as he says _yes, yes of course you are, you are good, eres buena,_ his tone almost a song, or a praying mantra of some sort, Regina allows herself to rest, and falls asleep awkwardly held in between his loving arms.

 

* * *

 

Weeks turn into months, and as another winter finds its way through their windows, the kingdom sees new life. It’s ironic that coldness and dead trees bring hope with them, but then Regina has always preferred a cool breeze to a stifling sun, and so she welcomes the respite they’re being offered with open arms. The plague has cost them much, but the news of people falling ill are few and far between now, not just within the limits of their own kingdom, but also in surrounding lands, the disease that has caused such grief beginning to leave their lives the same way it came to them, quickly and without explanation. Physicians are still stumped, but Regina already has plans to document what little evidence they may have gathered, not fully trusting that this virus has left them completely quite yet. Where their preoccupation over the spread of the plague wanes, though, the worries about the lack of resources begin to surface with growing strength. Regina has been hard and stoic about their economics during the crisis, though, and while lavish tables and extravagant displays won’t be seen for a long time, she’s confident that her kingdom won’t go hungry, either.

Regina herself has been feeling better, the newfound optimism of the court around her allowing for breathing space where there had been none for the better part of a year, and gifting her with enough time to think about her own needs. Thus, she grants herself permission to enjoy several meals a week with father and sometimes Snow, taking advantage of the fact that most of the noblemen they’re still guarding in the palace aren’t particularly keen on whatever spices remain in their kitchens, so that they don’t feel guilty by consuming them themselves. Father has also taken on the task of reminding her to sleep properly and for more than one hour at a time, and has chosen to relieve her lady’s maid of the task of combing Regina’s hair, turning such a simple and practical gesture into an intimate and quiet moment for them both, and managing to quench Regina’s unconfessed need for careful affection.

It is par for the course then that the moment Regina chooses to relax, tragedy strikes yet again. The palace has stood as a safe haven for months, but now that outbreaks are rare and far between, the disease filters through their walls, inevitably bringing new panic with it and wreaking havoc in the fragile balance that Regina had managed to instill within their impenetrable refuge. Two chambermaids are found vomiting blood by some duke or other, and by the time the news reach Regina’s ears it’s already too late, confusion, dismay and frenzied fear consuming her peaceful sanctuary before she can even begin to think about stopping it. Regina has half a mind to have the girls lashed for hiding their sickness, much more when they confess to having visited one of the infected areas not long ago despite the Royal Decree forbidding such actions, but the girls are dead before Regina can get to them.

A cook follows soon after, though, and it’s only the first of a list of ten that the fever touches before Regina can contain it, one of her own black knights falling prey to it, as well as Baroness Irene’s latest protégé, a sweet looking fifteen year old thing that dies barely two days after showing the first symptoms. Regina is quick to place the infected in one of the lower levels of the palace, reserving several chambers for them and harshly stopping the protests that demand that she separates noblemen from servants. Regina scoffs at such superficial matters at this stage, claims that everyone is equal when facing the dark eyes of death, and simply dismisses panicked and outraged blabber that she honestly doesn’t have the energy to withstand. She sends for the Royal Doctor, who has been managing the main outpost on the palace’s neighboring village by Regina’s orders and despite his own objections, and puts him to work on making sure that the spread is contained to the few rooms that Regina has given to the sick. If the infected die then Regina doesn’t particularly care, but she can’t have more people falling ill under her watch.

For her part, Regina remains as far away as she can from their temporary sick bay, ignoring the signs of death around her as best as she can. For all that she has investigated the disease to the best of her abilities, it awakens nothing but disgust within her, and she doesn’t think she can face decaying bodies and the smell of rotting flesh. She was never a sickly child, after all, her wounds and pains always consequence of direct actions – mother’s strict rules and vicious punishments, Leopold’s vile hands, her own carelessness – so the thought of fevers and chills is scary to her otherwise fearless character. Snow, on the other hand, kind in ways that Regina will never fully understand and inherently good-intentioned in her stupidity, chooses to ignore the little common sense she possesses and offers herself as nurse and aid to the doctor. She is at least smart enough to hide her actions from a Regina that she knows will disapprove, which of course doesn’t stop her from finding out; honestly, it baffles her that Snow thinks that there’s something going on inside this palace that Regina doesn’t know about.

“I have at least twenty different ways of explaining to you the idiocy of your irresponsible actions, dear, I do hope you are ready to listen to each and every one of them,” Regina tells her as soon as she manages to corner her in her bedchambers. She’s feeling so utterly unhinged by Snow’s little merciful act that she doesn’t know what to do with herself, and for once, she’s glad that they’re surrounded by enough servants and guards that she has to keep her own temper under control.

Snow protests, of course she does, her cheeks tainted in rebellious red and her shoulders set in a tense and awkward line. Regina would be worried if only the girl didn’t look like the perfect picture of a spoiled toddler throwing a tantrum.

“I was doing the right thing; I _am_ doing the right thing.”

“Do you even know who you are, my dear Snow? Because if you did you would understand that the right thing for you to do is not putting yourself in danger because you feel like playing nurse!”

Snow bristles visibly at that, angrier than Regina has perhaps seen her before, and enough that it throws her a little. Stomping feet and outbursts have never been part of Snow’s personality, her distress always quiet, as if fury was somehow an emotion far beyond her.

“I am just like everyone else,” Snow says then, seething, defying, her lips pursed in an ugly expression that sits wrongly on her face, which seems to be pleading with her to return to a beaming smile.

Regina can do nothing but laugh at Snow’s statement, though, and quickly follow it with a sneer that’s more natural for her than any smile, and declare, “No, Princess Snow White, you are not.”

Snow’s lack of self-awareness shouldn’t surprise Regina by now, but it certainly never fails to fire up her ire in ways that feel like a dam breaking inside her. Snow, who rules her privilege and immunity with such ease, who thinks that the world is made to please her, who intrudes and pushes with the rightful authority of someone who doesn’t understand denial, who gets so easily upset whenever Regina dares say no, has the gall to think of herself as _just like everyone else._ Regina wants to throttle her, expose herself as the exotic, sad, worthless queen she has been for so long, undermined and dismissed until she has proven her own value with nothing but work and determination, wants Snow to look at the world around her and _understand._ She does nothing of the sort, though, instead turning into the stern mother Snow needs her to be in the face of her most childish behavior, and simply sends her to her room with berating words.

Regina’s precautions and reprimands come too late, however, for Snow collapses before them two days later, her suddenly fragile looking body falling swiftly and unstoppably to the garden’s grounds while surrounded by the watchful and panicked eyes of enough members of the court that the news will take mere seconds to reach every last crevice of the palace. Regina stands frozen as the princess crumples, her head colliding against the ground with a loud and reverberating _crack,_ bouncing once, twice, before her body rests completely still, only the shallow movement of her chest proving that there’s still life brewing inside her. Time stands still for longer than Regina cares to remember, breaths being held in surprised gasps as Snow rests on the ground, still, so very still that Regina feels immediately sickened by the image. She is the first one to react, breaking the standstill by motioning behind her and at her black guard.

“Claude, the princess!” she hisses, nervousness betraying her tone as Claude picks Snow up from the ground, the flurry of cream fabric that is her dress discordant against the guard’s black garb.

In no more than a day, Snow becomes a trembling, feverish mess. Regina sends for the Royal Doctor as soon as Snow is left resting on her bed, which Regina herself strips of a heavy comforter and overly stuffed cushions before fitting the girl against plush pillows and under fine linens, nervous energy cursing through her as Snow’s heavy breathing rings loud and clear against her ears. It looks to her as if the princess is choking, unable to breathe properly in the confines of her dress, so before the doctor can reach her chambers, Regina uses a discarded table knife to cut through the laces of Snow’s corset, causing the girl to take a loud and gulping breath that arches her body of the bed, the awkward set of her limbs alien, jarring enough that Regina jumps away from her in a sudden bout of panic, scared that she’s broken more than she’s fixed. Snow calms down, though, and if her breathing doesn’t get any better, Regina hopes that at least she doesn’t feel as trapped.

The Royal Doctor reaches the bedchambers in a mild panic, and Regina is so discomfited that she doesn’t even have it in her to threaten execution for putting the princess in the perilous situation that has caused her to get ill. She’s not sure why, but as the doctor inspects Snow’s state, Regina finds her own breathing coming short, her own corset entirely too tight around her torso. She can’t breathe and she can’t think, and she only manages to turn around with disgust clouding her every sense when the doctor’s examination reveals grayish swellings by Snow’s armpits, painful looking and unnatural on her pale skin. Everything about this is wrong, Snow’s usually buoyant figure prone and fragile on the white sheets, the doctor flitting about her with fear so clearly written in his eyes that Regina wants to grab his lapels and demand he do something, fix this so that Regina can go back to her plans and schemes, all of which require a living and healthy Snow at their center.

There is nothing much the doctor can do, at least nothing beyond assuring a healthy diet and clean air, both of which Snow has been privy to for as long as the epidemic had plagued the kingdom. There is nothing for Regina to do, either, and while the passiveness of her own eternally busy fingers drives her mad, she chooses to stay by Snow’s bedside, if only to force her to eat even when she becomes delirious, barely understanding what is going on around her. The disease is advancing quickly, merely four days enough for Snow to look more like a corpse than a living body, her skin pale and gaunt, too close to the bone as it thins on her frame, the rosiness of her cheeks that Regina has hated and envied for so long completely gone.

Regina isn’t alone in her grieving, though, the princess’ illness the trigger Leopold needs to come out of his self-imposed confinement. For months now he’s been drinking himself into a stupor for all Regina knows, his appearances in court small and far between, if always clouded with courteous smiles and hopeful words for the noblemen of the palace. He sits quietly now, though, the fifth day of Snow’s fever making him mutter angrily under his breath, his probably clammy hand holding his daughter’s fingers in a tight and unforgiving grip, as if he can somehow expel his daughter’s ailment out of her body by willing it away hard enough. He’s failed to look Regina’s way for as long as they have remained together in this room, but then that is certainly nothing new. Regina doesn’t wish to be looked upon anyway, not when her grief is breaking her apart, making her vulnerable and agitated as well as agonizingly confused. Snow’s life escaping her in pain and misery is all Regina has ever wanted, and yet there is something not right about this, about Snow shivering and heavy, about the blackened fingers Regina is holding between her own, about her skin covered in cold sweat.

Regina is kneeling by the bed when Snow coughs heavily, blood pouring from between her lips and only enlarging the dry stain on her nightgown. Leopold looks at Regina as if this is somehow her fault, as if her insistence on keeping at least one window open so as to let cool breeze filter into the room is what’s causing Snow pain. And despite his look, he does nothing, and so Regina is the one that is left to reach for a piece of white linen and clean clumsily around Snow’s mouth. Regina certainly doesn’t make the best nurse, and Johanna’s reproving look joins Leopold’s from where she’s standing behind the king, as if Regina is somehow expected to step up and become someone she’s not in the face of this sickness and these feelings that she doesn’t understand. She’s distracted by Snow grumbling something impossible to understand. She’s been speaking gibberish for the past two days now, delirium taking hold of her, but Regina discerns that she doesn’t wish to lie down anymore, although Regina is beginning to think that drowning in her own blood might be a more merciful ending than being consumed so slowly but surely. Nonetheless, Regina sits on the bed, lifting Snow’s frame as best as she can and letting her rest against her own chest. She’s heavy, entirely too heavy when her body looks so thin, and Regina’s hands tremble when they rest on her waist so as to support her better.

Regina finds herself murmuring nonsense in Snow’s ear, her tone soft and fluid as it inadvertently plays with father’s native language, somehow more natural to her when she’s trying to soothe. That earns her another hard look from Leopold, and Regina wants to snarl at him and throw him away from the room, rip his hand apart from Snow’s. She knows the man adores his daughter beyond words, but his love is shallow and deformed, it’s something that makes Snow into nothing but the image of a little girl that looks too much like her late mother and is meant to remain ever virtuous and innocent. Leopold doesn’t know his daughter, doesn’t understand her. Unlike Regina, he hasn’t earned her love. Regina has, though, Regina who has circled, coddled, taught, listened to, berated, cared in as twisted a way possible; Regina who has been mother and sister, friend and shoulder to cry on with as much determination as she’s been furious enemy and false friend. Regina _knows_ Snow, knows her enough to deserve her life and her death, to make this sickness feel unnatural, a thief to what is Regina’s by right.

Two more days pass before the doctor dares enunciate what they all know to be true, his face the most stoic and serene that Regina has ever seen as he mouths, slowly and deliberately, “The princess is dying.”

It’s both a sentence and a relief, for Regina doesn’t think she can take Snow’s whimpering and suffering for much longer. It’s pathetic and undignified, unfitting to the life that Snow has led, to the stubborn glint that Regina had dared to spy in the set of her eyes as of late and to the pride that has occasionally blossomed in her chest at the sight of this ill-looking corpse that the princess has become in such a short time.

Regina feels like crying, her throat tight and her eyes watery, her hands shaky, and the feeling is so inadequate that all she wants to do is run away from this room and never look back. Father, who has been a silent and supportive presence in this stifling room for days now, leans a comforting hand between her shoulder blades and Regina, who has been kneeling by Snow’s bed as a praying penitent for as long as the princess has been sick, turns away and finds her father’s lap, soaking up whatever sort of comfort she can get for the confusing turmoil burning inside her chest. She doesn’t let herself weep, however, keeping the tears controlled, refusing to accept the despair that wants to consume her.

Silence reigns inside the room, only Johanna’s soft and whimper-like crying breaking the standstill and making Regina want to strangle the sound out of the woman. The stench of death is present amongst them too, making the air feel cumbersome and nearly tangible. They all remain still, audience to a sudden and absurd tragedy, to the death of this girl that will die a martyr, a kind soul stolen from the world far too soon. Regina can’t abide by that, can’t remain passively still when every single one of her hopes for true revenge will die with Snow. She can’t watch this, and she _won’t._ She lifts up her head from where she’s been hiding in father’s comforting embrace, feeling abruptly edgy, perhaps a little hysterical, shaky energy brimming under her skin as she realizes the kind of help that she’s going to have to invoke if she wishes to keep the princess alive, which she does with so much desperation that she puts her hand to her chest and rubs, as if she needs to physically calm down her wildly beating heart.

Hasty, her movements jerky and unfocused, as if she’s not sure where to go, Regina stands up and away from the bed, going as far away as the room allows from the group of people staring at the ailing princess. There’s something close to a collective flinch when she moves, her limbs quick and nearly bouncy while everyone else seems to be trapped under a slow motion spell, their gestures stagnant, grief like molasses clouding their actions. When Regina leaves the room as abruptly as possible, the sound of the door opening and closing behind her jarring in the otherwise silent chamber, only her black guard makes as if to follow her, ever-present shadow that Regina sends back into the room. Instead, she walks alone towards her own bedchambers, her steps hurried and her head bent low as she tries to avoid looking at the people she crosses around the hallways, servants with curious eyes that clearly want whatever update there is about the princess’ state. Regina doesn’t provide, and by the time she’s reached her room, she’s breathing hard and fast, as if she’d just run a long distance.

She paces her room once the door is closed behind her and she’s finally left alone with nothing but the nervous energy brimming under her skin. Her hasty and circling steps do nothing to calm her down, and neither does the mindless wringing of her own fingers before her. She feels hazy and she needs to stop and calm down before she makes any decision that she may later come to regret, but the only thing that does the trick is the resting of both her open palms over her own belly, a gesture that speaks to her more than she wants it to and that makes her stop her rushed back and forth walk. She looks down at her own hands on her body, splayed over all her empty spaces, where what is already an old scar itches suddenly, the ghost of her unborn child mocking her when she’s about to lose her unwanted daughter. She barks out a manic laugh, feels her senses leaving her even when she knows exactly what it is she has to do.

Moving her hands away from her stomach and clutching the fabric of her skirt so as to lift it up as she circles the room, looking up as if she’s searching for a god when in reality what she needs is a demon, she calls, “Rumpelstiltskin.”

Her soft prompting grants no answer, and the next call is a severe and loud demand. “Rumpelstiltskin, Rumpelsti–”

“Not so loud, dearie.”

Regina twirls quickly towards the sound of the high-pitched voice, and the sight of the imp sitting at the edge of her bed throws her, discordant when she hasn’t seen him in so long. Truthfully, she’d dabbled in magic when the first outbreaks of the plague had become alarming, but when she’d found no solution that her own knowledge could provide, she had completely dismissed the idea, focusing her efforts in more practical matters. Consequently, Rumpelstiltskin has been far away from her thoughts and her life for what feels like an entirely too long time, and his presence after such separation is jarring and overpowering. The air smells of dark magic, and his golden scaly skin, mocking smile and shudder-inducing voice are enough to make her cross her arms over her chest and hug herself protectively, feeling abruptly invaded by her former teacher. She’s forgotten what dealing with Rumpelstiltskin is like, and now that she’s called him, she wants him gone.

“You look terrible,” Rumpelstiltskin points out suddenly, one long nailed finger motioning in her direction in a wordless accusation.

Regina stops short at the statement, pursing her lips childishly and suddenly forgetting the deeply rooted fear that Rumpelstiltskin evokes in her in favor of being appallingly offended. The nerve of the imp, honestly, pointing out Regina’s lackluster appearance and making her want to throttle him. It’s true that Regina hasn’t changed clothes in the past three days at least, that her hair feels uncomfortably plastered to her sweaty forehead and that she probably smells, if only because she has been cooped up in a room with nothing but sickly scents to offer, but then she has hardly been in a position to care for such trifling matters. Faced with Rumpelstiltskin’s apparent amusement, though, her turmoil is pushed to the back of her head by an overwhelming wish to take a long, warm bath.

“Anyway, dearie, you bellowed?”

Her attention snaps back to Rumpelstiltskin, and standing tall and proud despite her haggard looks, she sneers and says, “I do not bellow, dear, I’m a queen.”

Rumpelstiltskin giggles at her, and Regina can’t help the smirk that taints her lips at the sound that fills her with as much disgust as it does nostalgia. She hasn’t _missed_ this demon man, not in the least, but she can’t deny that they’ve always had a certain kind of annoyingly gratifying rapport about them. After a year of old council members and a dying kingdom, Regina finds it almost refreshing. The feeling lasts but a second, though, as soon as Regina thinks of her reasons for calling for her former master, and at the same time her mouth quirks down and into a frown, she begins unwittingly pacing again.

“Snow White is dying,” she intones, cold and aloof, trying to distance herself from the reality of the princess consuming herself slowly on her own bed.

Rumpelstiltskin looks up when she says this, only his eyes moving up before they dance from side to side, the amber color of his orbs maddening in their movement. He imitates the dance with his hand, hypnotic like a clock, side to side, and then stops as abruptly as he started. “Isn’t that what you wanted?” he questions then, his voice rising uncomfortably to pose his inquiry.

“Not like this.”

He shakes his head, quickly and madly, looking at her as if she’s the one that is completely unhinged. “Why not?”

 _Why not, indeed,_ Regina questions herself, her hand unconsciously fisting around the chain holding Daniel’s ring and yanking, a painful and physical reminder of the deep loss that Snow White brought into her life with her ever careless and privileged good intentions. Snow White had staked a claim on Regina’s life they day she had spoken her secret to mother, and that’s the answer to Rumpelstiltskin’s _why not._

“Because she’s mine!” Regina declares rigidly, stopping her movement right in front of Rumpelstiltskin and staring into his all-knowing eyes with something that must surely be madness. “She won’t die a wilting martyr in some bed,” Regina declares, lifting her hand in front of herself and forming a claw with her fingers, phantom weight of a heart teasing at her. “She will die strong and healthy, watching as I crush her heart with my own bare hand.”

Regina only stops looking maniacally at her own hand when Rumpelstiltskin springs into action, standing up with a lively little jump and laughing heartily. “You do amuse me, dearie, I must say.” Then, circling her in that way of his that makes Regina dizzy, he fiddles with his hands in the air and asks, “And what can I possibly do for you, then?”

“There must be something that can cure her.”

A giggle and a puff of purple magic is enough for a small vial to appear between Rumpelstiltskin’s fingers, a blue elixir shining with what can only be magic held within it. Rumpelstiltskin presents it proudly, and before he can launch on an explanation of its origins and powers, Regina reaches forward for it. She’s left with both hands hanging in the air when Ruemplestiksin pulls back, though, easily hiding the small bottle in his closed fist.

“You know better than that,” he says.

Composing herself all too quickly and recuperating her straight stance, she hisses, “Of course; what do you want?”

That’s enough to cue one of Rumpelstiltskin’s little shows of anticipation, steps bouncy and finger tapping at his own chin as if thinking deeply about what it is that he could possibly ask from Regina. Regina bites her own tongue to stop herself from snapping and instilling some form of urgency in the imp, but she knows better than that by now. It’s honestly easier to let him get it out of him than to stop him, or he may just end up dragging the moment even more.

“Well…” he says finally, stopping in his tracks and looking pointedly at her. “A child for a child, I suppose; that would be fair, don’t you think?”

Unwittingly, Regina places both hands on her own belly, splaying them there and looking down with wide eyes betraying surprising. Before Regina can analyze the meaning behind Rumpelstiltskin’s words, though, he interrupts her thought with mirth filling his voice, “No, not that; there’s nothing to be had in there,” he states, wiggling his fingers before Regina’s belly with something like distaste.

Regina scowls, hugging herself protectively and taking a step back, willing herself not to be affected by Rumpelstiltskin’s taunts. He’s always been needlessly cruel, and even if she’s itching to draw her nails slowly over the smooth skin of her stomach, a lackluster reminder of what was never to be, she reminds herself that he takes delight on pushing his fingers wherever he finds a weakness. Regina will not give him the pleasure of seeing her affected by his words.

“What do you want, Rumpel?” she asks, exasperation evident in her tone.

“The next gift a child gives you.”

Regina frowns, not understanding the request even if Rumpelstiltskin probably knows exactly what it is that he’s talking about. It seems entirely too inconsequential, but he always asks for everything with a clear purpose, and she can’t guess at what it is that he’s hinting. A gift from a child? Why would a child give her anything?

“I don’t understand,” she says.

“You don’t need to, dearie; do we have a deal, or not?”

Regina hates making deals with such an unknown factor to them; for all she knows her future spells something important, and offering an unknown object that isn’t in her possession yet to Rumpelstiltskin seems like a fool’s errand. But then there’s Snow White, dying in her white sheets, smelling of death and stubbornly clinging to life, as if she herself knows that she owes Regina the right to end her, as if she knows that she belongs to Regina in impossibly twisted ways.

Finally, Regina hisses, “Yes.”

With a giggle, Rumpelstiltskin throws the small vial at her, forcing her into a sudden and breathless movement to catch it, her tired limbs reacting quickly enough so as to grasp the small object but complaining through the whole process, speaking of impossibly long days of restlessness and confusing fear.

“Pour all of it in a glass of water and give it to the princess,” Rumpelstiltskin instructs. “She will be up and about in no time, just like you want.”

Rumpelstiltskin offers her one last wicked smile before he leaves her, a puff of purple smoke the only sign that he was ever in the room. Regina suspects that she might not be the only one wanting Snow White alive, for even if the reasons behind Rumpelstiltskin’s games are always clouded by riddles and fanfare, some things he can’t hide from Regina. It escapes her why the little imp might want the princess to live, but it’s certainly enough for Regina to question momentarily whether she should go through with this or not. It’s daunting, to think that she will be saving the life of the girl she so wants dead, at the behest of the master that has tortured her so. She laughs; she must be going crazy after all, for the doubts last no longer than a second, and soon enough, mind determined and steps heavy, she runs towards Snow’s bedchambers so that she can bring her back to life.

 

* * *

 

The story of Snow White’s miraculous recovery runs like wildfire the moment the princess begins breathing regularly again, creating not only awe and expectation, but breathing new life into a hopeless kingdom the same way Rumpelstiltskin’s tonic breathed life back into Snow. Regina still remembers the smell, the potent magic of the brew reaching her senses in the form of invigorating scents, peppermint and lime hiding something pungently dark. It saved the princess, though, and it was better than the scent of death that had clung to her before Regina had forced the watered down tonic down her throat.

Her recovery isn’t immediate, though, the magical brew that she bought from Rumpelstiltskin enough to rip her away from the long fingered grasp of death, but not enough to bring her to her usual boisterous and healthy behavior as fast as everyone would wish. These days, Snow’s hands are shaky and her breathing comes short whenever she tires herself too much. Her stomach, too, is out of sorts, rejecting food in ways that Regina is uncomfortably familiar with, and making her be almost constantly dizzy. Snow is a strong girl, though, and she pushes through her symptoms with a smile on her face, reassuring everyone around her that she’s feeling perfectly fine. Her good mood is a little sickening to Regina, who has been feeling discomfited ever since she chose to push death away from Snow at a price that she still doesn’t understand.

No matter what, even if Regina finds herself reclaiming her place in the council and dealing with a kingdom that is recovering as slowly as its princess, she makes sure to keep a close eye on Snow’s convalescent state. She pairs meetings on logistics and discussions about reopening merchant routes with slow walks through the gardens where Snow can cling to her arm and pretend that she’s not as tired as Regina knows her to be. In addition, she makes sure to take all her meals with the princess, sharing a table at Snow’s bedchambers and making sure that her diet is sufficient and varied, and that she begins taking stronger foods the more she recovers. She does it if only for her own sake, for she utilizes Snow’s increase in health as therapy for herself, eating the same things as the princess, and realizing that her exhaustion matches the girl’s, even if she hasn’t been sick herself. Truth be told, the sickness of the whole kingdom has burdened her shoulders heavily for too long a time, and Regina has been drinking too much and eating too little.

Despite all the hard work this year of crisis has brought them, though, the knowledge that she has quietly and effectively taken over the role of true ruler of the kingdom is something that keeps a near permanent smile etched on her lips. Mother would be proud, she thinks, of her using the misery of the lands for her own benefit, but then Regina is sure she deserves a prize for all the hard work she’s put on saving people that have chosen to call her cruel and unforgiving.

Regina had been made startlingly aware of her own advantages the same day she had effectively saved Snow’s life. She had administered the tonic in a goblet full of water, claiming that the princess looked parched and that they were to make her last moments as pleasant as possible, and while she had smelled the magic instantly in the air, the lack of immediate recovery had reminded her that the people in the princess’ bedchambers couldn’t possibly understand that she was going to be just fine. Unbidden, she had smiled at the thought. King Leopold had caught her expression and had flinched at it, perhaps thinking her happy at the sight of his daughter’s sure demise. In his madness, he had broken the lull that had fallen upon the mourning room and had raised his voice accusingly while stalking a kneeling Regina, crowding her space.

“You,” he’d said. “You are behind this, you–you–you demon! I should have known better than to let myself be fooled by a beautiful face.”

Regina had been taken aback by the outburst, Leopold never having once before slipped into his berating habits in front of other people, always careful and restrained, ready with a smile and a syrupy _my queen_ to fool his court. With his child dying, though, Regina had been the perfect target for his anger, the presence of others in the room clearly unimportant.

Shimmering with rage at the false accusation, Regina had stood up to face the king, prompting him to step forward and into Regina’s space, looming before her with his bumbling yet bigger frame. Regina had been more than ready to simply snap angrily at her foolish husband, but she’d stopped when the king coming closer to her had made her black guard step by her side, the hilt of his sword tightly gripped in his fist. The obvious threat of the guard’s movements had made the king gasp and stand back, surrender easily before actions that were both intimidation and menace, reason enough to have her guard executed for daring to direct such behavior at the king. Leopold had done nothing, though, merely breaking his stance and drawing back into himself.

Regina had understood Leopold’s retreat for what it had been, then, defeat and abandon in the face of his tragedy, nothing to hold between his hands now that his daughter was dying and he’d given up on his kingdom. Regina had understood that it was her who now held the true title of queen, the black garments of her army now the real sign of authority within the kingdom.

The weeks that follow Snow’s recovery are busy, and time trickles much too fast for Regina’s liking, so she relishes afternoons that find her resting next to Snow in the gardens, even if she couples her rest with the reading of official correspondence. Now that both her and other neighboring kingdoms have begun opening up most roads again, everyone seems to crave information about the status of their surroundings lands, Regina herself included. Trade is of utmost importance now more than ever, after all, for many animals and crop fields have been lost due to the spreading of disease. Regina is happy to find out that she has been far more organized than any other kingdom around her, with perhaps the exception of King George’s; which isn’t such a surprise, the man being overly cautious and firm of hand.

“You should get some rest, Regina; stop reading for a minute, please,” Snow requests on one of those afternoons.

They’re sitting by Regina’s apple tree, the scent of fresh fruit and flowers pleasant around them, and a warm breeze touching their skin softly. It’s a nice day outside, sunny but not overly so, and truth be told, Regina is feeling a little sleepy, much more so when Snow is leaning her cheek against her shoulder, her arms wrapped loosely around one of Regina’s and her eyes closed. Regina had thought her asleep, but she’s probably only tired after they’ve been walking for the better part of an hour before Regina had allowed them to sit down. Snow has grown very tactile around her since she came back from the dead, reminding Regina of the earlier years of their relationship, when Snow was nothing if not gangly and overly excited limbs. There’s nothing but calm in her movements now, though, and the touches she bestows upon Regina are clearly searches for a comfortable position for her tired frame – she usually leans on her shoulder or bosom, and when she lacks the stubbornness to remain upright, she simply allows herself to lay down and press her head to Regina’s lap. Regina allows the clinginess almost graciously, and finds herself unwittingly carding her fingers through Snow’s hair on most of these occasions, finding secret comfort in the caress.

This afternoon, she merely hums at Snow’s request, but she drops the letter between her hands and allows herself to unwind for a while, considering for a moment whether she wishes to take a bite from one of the apples she tore down from the tree or not. In the end, she does, the crunchy sound of it between her teeth never failing to be satisfactory.

“Do eat something, dear,” she prods Snow, dangling a similarly ripe looking fruit before her until Snow takes it. Regina watches her play with it for a minute and bite it only after she has issued a no non-sense glare.

Regina has been feeling stupendously hungry as of late, as if now that there is actual time to think and breathe, her body has chosen to remind her of its existence. Regina has certainly been careless of most outward aspects of her life while working away for the past year, but now, she’s coming back to herself; just the other day she’d even indulged in a new dress, if only to celebrate the fact that they had recovered the trade of fine fabrics after so long of going without it. Furthermore, she’s finding a freshly bout of hunger for something other than food within herself, her body burning up and aching for a sensual kind of attention in ways that are not completely unfamiliar for Regina, but certainly surprising. And she would take care of her needs, too, if only she found herself even remotely attracted to anyone in court. As it is, she prefers the touch of her own hands on her heated skin, hidden under her bed linens and in the darkness of her room, thoughts flying away to lovers that she doesn’t have. Cravings such as these invading her senses, it’s hard not to think of Maleficent.

She admits that her thoughts are clouded with a slight sigh of worry, King Stefan’s kingdom too far away from her own for her to know how affected it has been by the plague. Surely a witch that turns into a dragon won’t have succumbed to something as absurd as sickness, but the doubt gnaws at Regina’s mind, a small yet constant string of questions always present at the back of her head. There is a wild part of her that can’t stop thinking about paying a visit to her long lost friend, but it has been a little over two years since they last saw each other, and Regina’s not sure that Maleficent won’t charbroil her on sight. She would probably bed her first, though, and Regina finds herself thinking that it wouldn’t be a terrible way to leave this world. Regina doesn’t indulge herself with a visit, however, but she finds herself unable to stop her own thoughts; it’s difficult, after all, to think about anyone other than Maleficent when she’s gliding her hands over her own body, considering that Maleficent was the one who introduced her to such a practice, her smile full and wicked around a peach as she’d told her _touch yourself for me, dear._ It’s one of Regina’s favorite memories of them together, her confrontational nature always managing to quench her embarrassment at Maleficent’s requests, and invariably teaching her something new about her own cravings and desires.

Sexual pleasure is not the last of her appetites, though, something she doesn’t completely understand itching beneath her skin. It’s similar to what she’d been feeling before the kingdom got swamped by their latest crisis, something like anticipation brimming in her every pore. She suspects it has something to do with the uselessness of Leopold now that they kingdom is so undisputedly hers, and with the pathetic figure that he cuts these days, an old man indulging his old age with slow walks by the beach and a complete lack of knowledge of the truths that surround them. Not even his daughter, convalescing and slow in her movements, seems to be enough for his preoccupations to go beyond what material is more comfortable for his walking shoes, and which rings to wear each day. He of course makes sure that Snow lacks nothing, but his demeanor involves words of adoration for her and little else, Regina being, once again, the one left to care for the princess in the way that she needs, forcing her to walk and eat even on the days when she’s feeling too weak. Regina finds the man distasteful and pathetic, and perhaps what her skin is burning with is the unbearable necessity of ridding the world of this unworthy king.

Regina knows the kingdom is ready, ripe for the taking if she so chooses to do so, but even if she’s sure that that is what she wants and deserves, she still treads carefully. The death of the king will change the rules once again, and she has gotten so good at playing the court’s game that she has to wonder if making up her own won’t drive her completely mad. She will burn this court to the ground and their princess will fall with it, and the thought is both exhilarating and scary; she has been working so hard and for so long that it feels to her as if her own power must be an elaborate joke still, something that she has allowed herself to believe in so as to feel at peace with her chosen path. She wavers between bouts of doubt and sheer determination, her hands shaking when she thinks of leaving behind subterfuge and power plays and exchanging them for unwavering and absolute control.

Snow makes her attention snap back to the present when she moves from her place against Regina’s shoulder, straightening up, combing her fingers through her own hair and pulling it back behind her shoulders, as if she can hardly carry it around it’s so uncomfortably heavy. Regina finds that she has crumpled a few sheets of paper in her fisted palm as her thoughts wandered among hunger of every kind; she’s lucky she didn’t end up inadvertently burning them up. Shaking her head so as to focus on the present, she drops the ruined letters and aims her attention at Snow instead, going for her dark locks with familiar ease and busying her hands with braiding her hair with slow movements. She doesn’t know if Snow is smiling, but she catches a small sigh, and wills herself to forget about her own doubts if only for a second. It wouldn’t do for Snow to think her unstable, after all.

Once she’s done, Regina goes back to her correspondence, arching an eyebrow when Snow begins reading along with her by hovering close to her shoulder, no sign of subtlety in her motions. Regina doesn’t care much, not when the letters she has left to read are from her own local outposts, and only bring news of the general unhappiness that seems to clog the people of the kingdom. It’s understandable, considering the lives lost and the misery that has followed, but Regina has to twist her lips at the accounts of how her latest regulations seem to bring nothing but complaints. Obviously uninformed peasants can’t possibly understand that restraint is of utmost importance if they want to leave this rough patch behind them once and for all, or that the burning of certain parts of the land is necessary to ensure complete disinfection. Decreeing regular examinations from physicians is something that people seem to be rebelling against as well, when all Regina intends is for the population to be free of disease. Rumors that she’s just looking to separate people from their families for gods know what reason also abound, and Regina can do nothing but roll her eyes about the stupidity of such comments. She expected some idle talk of witchcraft and sorcery, peasants being known for easily falling into superstition, but the way people are speaking about her make it seem as if she’s eating virgin maidens alive for breakfast.

“I told father that I wanted to journey through the lands,” Snow says suddenly, looking away from the papers between Regina’s hands and staring at her instead. “Wouldn’t people feel better if they were to see us? Oh Regina, if they knew how much we cared, how we have suffered just like them.”

Regina twists until she can lock eyes with Snow, a curious tilt to her head as she ponders Snow’s words. Their suffering hasn’t been like that of the lower classes, but Snow’s idea isn’t completely stupid. There’s actually some merit to it, and while Snow is only thinking of kindness and support, Regina is thinking of manipulation and knowledge. Why trust information coming from other people’s impressions, after all, when Regina can document herself by going out there? And wouldn’t the people think her kind and gentle if she were to leave her palace and Council Room to step into their simple villages?

“What did your father have to say on the matter?” Regina questions. It’s not that it matters much, but for Snow’s sake, Regina must maintain her façade of loving wife.

Snow pouts at her question, and Regina clacks her tongue so as to correct the gesture. Pouting and wide eyes are weapons that work well in certain moments, but Regina won’t have the princess developing a habit of pursing her lips stupidly when there’s nothing to be gained. The expression is both childish and dim-witted, and Regina has hated herself every single time she’s used it, donning that particular mask of dumb girl always hard on her.

Snow straightens herself quickly at Regina’s obvious disapproval, and says, “He says I’m too weak still.”

Regina wants to cackle at the thought; Leopold probably doesn’t know how his daughter is truly feeling, but now he has sickly to add to his idea of little princess Snow White, and Regina knows that if it were up to him, his daughter would never leave this palace, or his side. Instead of laughing, Regina offers Snow a smile, and touching her knuckles softly to her cheek, a practiced caress, she says, “You’re stronger than your father thinks, dear.” Then, with an air of determination, she completes, “I shall speak to him; we will be leaving in a week. Now quiet, dear, and let me finish my readings.”

Snow concedes her wish, clearly pleased to have gotten her way, and probably convinced of Regina’s kind ways as well. She even offers Regina a big and honest smile, which makes Regina fight her own instincts so as not to offer a scowl in return. The more adoration Snow bestows upon her, the more Regina grows to hate her, after all, and she would rather deal with a weakened and sleepy Snow than with one so visibly delighted. They’re having a good afternoon today, though, and Regina doesn’t wish to spoil her mood with dark thoughts about her charge.

Regina goes back to her letters, smiling her own genuine smile when she reaches for what’s clearly a letter from Prince Bernard, and which she has consciously left for last. She hasn’t had any news from the prince for over a year now, and she’s both excited and delighted at having received a letter as well as a small box from him. If the box holds any kind of sweet, as it is wont to do to, she should be consistent with her teachings and scold him for wasting food on her, but then Regina isn’t the child’s mother, and she wishes to feel nothing but joyous glee when thinking of little Bernie. She reaches for the box first, and can do nothing but raise both eyebrows in surprise when she finds a funny looking wooden toy inside it, rather than any type of candy as she’d been expecting. She inspects the small object that easily fits within her palm, looking at the pointed tip and colorfully painted wood with childlike curiosity, and easily ignoring Snow’s exclamation of _how strange!_ even when made right against Regina’s ear. Regina has never seen anything quite like, but a short examination has her pressing the tip to the ground right before her, and spinning the small object by the wooden stem directly opposite the tip. The toy twirls clumsily, the colors etched into the wood dancing along with it and creating a wild rainbow for a short and gleeful moment before it inevitably stops and falls back into the ground. Regina laughs, surprised, and so does Snow, obviously delighted enough to reach forward and give the toy another spin. Regina twists her lips at Snow’s appropriation, wishing that she’d waited to be alone to open the strange gift.

It is with a smile that Regina turns to the letter then, wanting to hear whatever news Bernie might have for her, and wishing to know what this toy might be called. What her eyes fall upon, however, isn’t Bernie’s uneven and hurried scrawl but a much firmer and elegant calligraphy, the words that fail to register for a moment much too formal. Regina gasps as she reads, finding the paper shaking as her hand begins to do so, her breath coming short and wheezy from her clogged up throat. A drop of water falls upon the letter, the ink running and making Regina realize that the wetness doesn’t come from a drop whatsoever, but from the first of many tears falling from her own eyes.

“Regina?” Snow questions next to her, her voice sounding entirely too far away to be real, Regina’s world suddenly reduced to words spelled before her.

Again and again Regina reads them, and the meaning doesn’t change. _Prince Bernard fell ill,_ they say, _thankfully didn’t suffer, died after only a few hours of showing symptoms, he spoke of you with such fondness, he would have wanted you to have his favorite toy, thank you for your kindness._

Regina’s limbs feel suddenly heavy, and when she tries to react, she finds that she can barely stand up, her legs as shaky as the rest of her frame, burdened by news so abruptly unexpected and discomfiting that she hurts physically. She holds herself against a bench, the cold of the stone under her palm seeping into her skin and helping her gain some of her senses back, making her realize that Snow is standing up next to her, worry painted in every inch of her expression and voice a little desperate as she calls to an unresponsive Regina. She doesn’t feel capable of dealing with Snow now, not when she’s so clearly alive and welcoming health back into her skin and Prince Bernard lays dead and gone, the one sweet and kind should that Regina has had for herself lost to the nothingness, much like everything else she has ever dared to love. She’s dizzy and sick, her stomach suddenly recoiling and making her want to drop all her weight back on the ground, where she can better mourn that which has been stolen from her.

Regina stumbles, but before she can indeed fall, a strong arm around her stops her from collapsing. She expects Snow but finds her lady’s maid instead, for which she is suddenly and unwaveringly thankful, the severe eyes of her woman forever clad in black now sobering her up somehow.

“Accompany the princess back to her bedchambers,” she commands, her voice croaky and so far from an order that she can only be grateful that the woman won’t deny her. “I–I must go.”

Snow yells after her, her name a question in her overly curious lips, but Regina is already far away, running towards the hiding space of her own bedchambers with her hands filled with the dooming letter and the strange toy that is the last gift she will ever receive from the now lost prince. She reaches her bedchambers by virtue of having walked the same path for years now, blinded as she is by her own unquiet grief. She feels on the verge of a breakdown, and she’s at least conscious enough not to want to make a scene somewhere public, or at least no more of the one she’s already making by running hurriedly in the search of an empty space.

Her rooms are invaded by two chambermaids when she enters, and they both get shouted out unkindly, Regina’s own voice feeling entirely too strange, as if coming from somewhere other than her own body. Once the door is closed behind her she leans into it, her forehead meeting the cold wood as her eyes close, all deliberate thought gone from her as a pained and loud sob tears from within her, clawing its way from her belly and up her chest, leaving a scorching trail on its way up and out. She’s gotten so used to quiet grief that the sound shocks her to the core, makes her bring her hands to her stomach and push them there, claws digging into the hard fabric of her dress as if they could reach her marred skin, the empty places inside her that now throb with another piece of love lost. It should be so inconsequential to her, the death of a child she met once so long ago, but Prince Bernard had been kind in a way so genuine that he had made Regina see hope where there was none, and she can’t bear the thought that such foul people remain when such a wonderful soul has been condemned and taken away. Must she lose everything she loves, then? Must only that which breads hatred within her remain?

Growling so as to expel her pain away, Regina throws the wooden toy away from her, her fingers releasing it from their tight grip only to turn unstable and shaky once they’re free from holding it. Regina expects a hard crashing sound when the toy touches the floor or the wall, anticipates it with something close to manic delight even, and can only gasp when even such a small wish isn’t granted to her. Rather than meet a hard surface, the flying toy is abruptly stopped by Rumpelstiltskin’s hand, his sudden appearance coupled with Regina’s distress throwing her back with such jarring force that she finds herself leaning back against the door for support. Disgust and fascination fill her up in equal measure when Rumpelstiltskin presses the toy against the surface of a desk and makes it twirl much like Regina had not minutes ago. The toy spins and spins this time, though, magical aid obvious in the way the movement never falters, never stops, the colorful blur only worsening the haze that is covering Regina’s mind. Rumpelstiltskin giggles, twirls and claps, the whole spectacle grotesquely childish and enough to make Regina reach forward, her hand claw-like as she steps closer to the ever-spinning toy, only to be stopped by Rumpelstiltskin’s upturned palm.

“No, no, dearie,” he says, “we had a deal, remember?”

Regina blinks owlishly at him, not knowing what he’s talking about and hating herself for being in such a vulnerable state before him.

“The next gift a child gives you,” Rumpelstiltskin tells her, and that’s enough to joggle her memory. Of course, a deal made in Snow White’s name.

Regina hisses, more animal than human as she turns away from the imp, pacing for a moment before she stops herself, her back to Rumpelstiltskin and her hands fisted tightly at her sides. She tells herself she doesn’t care, not when the toy is such a stupid little token and can’t possibly bring back the child it belonged to, not when Regina will forever think of overly sweet treats offered in kindness when Prince Bernard comes to her mind, and not of the twirling colors of his last offering. Still, it seems like such a silly thing to ask from her that Regina has to wonder if Rumpelstiltskin is simply being cruel by ripping this small toy away from her clutches. _A child for a child_ , he’d said when they’d made their deal, and perhaps the toy is nothing but  a memento on a life bargained for.

Turning around sharply, Regina faces Rumpelstiltskin and declares, “You knew he would fall sick, you knew he would die,” she accuses, her tone unforgiving even in the face of Rumpelstiltskin’s amused smile. “I could have saved him.”

Rumpelstiltskin smiles, the kind that curves his lips in the strangest of ways, the kind that is knowingly vicious and that makes him look inhuman and all-powerful. “You wouldn’t have.”

“That tonic, I would have chosen–”

“The same thing, dearie,” Rumpelstiltskin intones, moving so fast as he speaks that Regina is left gaping stupidly when he reappears entirely too close to her, his face right before hers, his snake-like eyes calling to hers and holding her gaze with a madness that she has never spied in him before.

He reaches up and forward for her, grasping her cheeks between scaly fingers and squeezing painfully, his touch foul and aggravating, painful and steady, reminding Regina of who it is that she’s dealing with. Rumpelstiltskin wavers between silly and mystical with so much ease that sometimes Regina forgets the threat, ignores the deeply rooted fear she feels for this man who has been teacher and father, and who now more than ever is building himself up to be her toughest adversary. There is nothing playful in his demeanor now, nothing but an open threat written in the eyes that are burning Regina with purpose. Regina tries to shake herself from his grip nonetheless, grasping at his wrist with her own hand and pulling, growling when she realizes she can’t move away.

“Haven’t you figured out what you are already, Regina?” he asks then, his smile curling up yet again with heartless cruelty, his tone deliberate and full, her name coming out from his lips perfectly spelled and foul-sounding. “You are _bad,_ dearie, and you will do well to stop telling yourself otherwise.”

 _Bad,_ he says, and it’s such a weak word but it rattles her, sticks to her insides and festers. Daddy had called her good, and surely she must be.

“I’m not–I’m not bad,” she counters, vulnerable child speaking with her own voice, the voice that has conquered men and women alike, the voice that has earned itself a ruling position, the voice that only falters when faced with this not quite man before her.

He laughs, low and dangerous rather than one of his usual giggles. “Well, don’t say it like it’s the wrong thing to be.”

At that, Regina shakes herself free, knowing full well that Rumpelstiltskin is letting her do so but not caring so long as she can put some distance between them. “Go away, Rumpel,” she tells him as soon as she recovers her voice enough for it to feel commanding. “You have your deal and your trinket, imp. Now leave.”

Finally listening to her, or perhaps already tired of this particular visit, Rumpelstiltskin does as he’s told and leaves, making the air feel fresher just by not being in the room. Regina is left seething, grief substituted by anger in a way that is commonplace for her now, familiar to the point that she welcomes it, for surely anger is better than pain. As if to prove her point, she aims a fireball at a vase filled with fresh flowers – they’re purple anemones, which she has made sure chambermaids know she hates, and when they fall burnt to a crisp to the floor, broken crystal around them, she finds herself smiling. There’s purpose to her ire, where her grief only leaves her blank and numb, heavy and wishing for life to be over already.

Life isn’t over, though, the air fleeting calmly inside the room and her heaving chest proof enough that there’s still time for her here; time that she must use to accomplish her wishes, now more than ever. She has paid another steep price so that Snow can have her head on her shoulders, Bernie’s kind and brave soul now joining that of Daniel’s on the ground, and Regina can do nothing but serve their sacrifice with revenge, for what good would it to them is she were to wither and die in her insurmountable despair?

She has a trip to plan, and a kingdom to rule, and once she’s completed her journey through these perilous times filled with heartache, she will build visible tombs for those who dared to love her, and who were touched by her ever damaging hand. Bernie’s death should not be on her, not when she had no hand in creating the illness that took him away. Still, in a world where she has fought bravely and saved so many, including the girl who has brought nothing but dreadful misery to her life, she hasn’t been able to use her wits to allow blooming life to grace the heart of her little friend. He was going to grow up kind and charming, honest in ways that the world is incapable of breeding anymore, and he was going to turn sixteen and ask Regina to marry him, and they were going to laugh at his occurrence and dance to silent music, and then Regina was going to send him on his way, on the path of happiness that such a wonderful spirit surely deserved.

There are no dances to be had, no hopes to be cherished, though, and all Regina has is a trip to plan and anger to fill her up, lest madness take hold of her heart, and kill her before she can kill those who have wronged her instead.

 

* * *

 

Regina, Snow and their entourage leave the palace on a warm spring morning, the smell of fresh flowers following them as they begin their journey through the lands. Leopold, stubborn and tired, remains in the palace, a fact for which Regina is unwittingly thankful; she doesn’t want to owe anything to the man, after all, but she can hardly complain when he seems to be going to extra efforts just to remain away from her path. Her own lady’s maid travels with them, as well as Johanna, who had refused to stay behind and instead chooses to travel with a disapproving frown settled between her eyes, as if she firmly believes that Regina is forcing the hardships of travelling on a still weak Snow. Father closes their small travelling group, along with Regina’s Black Guard which joins them in the name of protection. After all, while Regina hasn’t made their pathways public, the knowledge that royal visits will be bestowed upon main villages has spread already, and the last thing she needs is for them to be ambushed by thieves or murderers.

Their plans include a month of journeying, and while they travel with tents and provisions enough for spending nights in the woods, Regina hopes for offered beds in villages and inns. Her body still recoils from darkness in the woods, the memory of a child lost gnawing at her, as well as that of Maleficent coming to her at the shore of a cold watered lake. The least she thinks of her times in the woods, the better for her own sanity, which will certainly be tested when she’s to travel alongside Snow in such closed quarters with little time for reprieve. Thankfully enough, father accepts travelling with them in Regina’s carriage, and he chooses to help them pass the time by reading old stories of his own long forgotten kingdom. Regina’s heard them a million times already, but she never fails to enjoy them, particularly when they’re told in father’s smooth and unwavering voice and when she needs whatever little sigh of peace she can hold onto, especially when Bernard’s death is still such a fresh wound. Snow seems to fairly enjoy them as well, father’s voice a soothing balm for her tired limbs; the princess never fails to fall asleep with a smile painting her features whenever father’s gently polished tone in permeating her senses.

The night they arrive at the first village, there is a feast in their honor. It’s meager and humble, but still Regina sees it for the waste that it is. The food and drinks that they’re offering them with grandiose joy is food and drink that these people can’t possibly afford to consume in such a short period of time, and so Regina looks upon them with derision and haughtiness. What good are efforts, after all, if peasants are to do as they wish with what little resources they have? She barely eats, feeling sickened at the smells of blandly cooked meals and porridges, but she does drink. The villages have no wine to spare, but the production of mead has been plentiful even through the harshest periods, and Regina gets easily drunk with the foul concoction while she tries not to think too much about the sweet wine that Maleficent always favored.

The longer they journey, the clearer Regina sees the situation she has put herself in. Peasants adore Snow White, they see her as their true princess and they speak easy words of worship about the daughter of the still not forgotten Queen Eva. Regina wishes she could laugh, this visit nothing but a repeat of her nights spent with Leopold above her and thinking of another and apparently better woman. Once again, she’s lacking by comparison, and not even the firm arm that she keeps around Snow’s waist so as to support the still weak princess garners her any compassion. She learns that while they see Snow as naturally kind, they see her as cold and distant, as someone to be feared and stepped around. Even Snow’s sickness proves to be a point in her favor, for she becomes one with the people of the kingdom when they see her pale and still mending, equal to them in her suffering where Regina is foreign and haughty. Regina wants to scream at them all, wants to claim her right as the true healer of this land, wants to tell the world that she has suffered the sickness of them all in her own flesh, and that she has endured and saved as many as she has been able to. She wants nothing but to disclose how she traded for the life of this princess they so love in exchange for the last memory she was granted of a gentle little boy, how it is her that is worthy of their love.

Her heart filled with anger and her insides twisting with pained desires, the journey proves harder for Regina than for Snow, despite her body being stronger. She tolerates it all with her best and most wicked smile etched on her face, though, for Regina has known all kinds of prisons and this one is only one more to add to her collection – and after all, mother made sure than nothing proved harder to withstand than the dark cellar inside her own home.

Despite it all, Regina is surprised by the happiness that permeates their visits, considering how the letters received spoke of such hopelessness. Is it Snow what is bringing such delight with her, or is perhaps happiness something so elusive that it only shows in random and capricious moments? Regina can’t tell, but she can easily spy unbidden smiles in men that have been without work for too long a time and now have fields to saw and animals to take to the pastures, clear joy in the faces of new mothers, even something like perceived contentment in the hounds of scrawny dogs. The air brings with it the scent of flowers and grass, rather than that of death, and babies roll around in the mud, their smiles filled with life and hope, speaking of new times only confirmed by the sight of Snow’s easy smile. Regina can’t share such happiness, though, seeing nothing but her own losses reflected back at her, and feeling nothing but furious envy at the favors that Snow receives when she finds herself deserving of nothing but fear.

Peasants seem thoroughly convinced that she’s a witch, ready to snap at them and eat their hearts so as to bring dark curses upon their families. She looks at herself in the mirror, wondering what it is they see in her face that makes her so inadequate in their eyes. She figures it might be the pools of emptiness hidden in her gaze, the sharpness of her cheekbones, the startlingly noticeable scar upon her lip, or maybe things as simple as the striking red adorning her mouth, or the black color of her clothes. They are certainly strange among the faded browns and dirty whites that cloud the villages, and while Regina has brought softer clothes with her, she refuses to give these people reprieve of whatever fear she may evoke in them. She might have before, but she’s exhausted of playing parts and changing herself for others, of being what people need her to be in detriment of her own desires and necessities. If they wish for her to be a witch clad in black, then so be it, for she will not be the candid queen supporting Snow’s claim to the throne that they would be more comfortable with.

Snow turns twenty years old while they’re on the road, and Regina fails to have a gift ready for her, time having become something of an easy thing to forget about while they’ve been consumed by other and more urgent matters. Regina promises a feast once they’re back at the palace, and with a soft smile, Snow tells her that all she wishes for is a night spent with her in her bedchambers, nothing but shared sweets on the floor and a bed sheet covering their heads, the way it had been when Snow had been younger, before the time of balls and big celebrations. She even claims that a feast would be inadvisable, considering Regina’s own wish for restraint, and Regina hates her for being so wistful and careful, so warm in her honest desires that she manages to make Regina feel awkward for wanting to run away from the kind of intimate evening Snow’s asking from her.

On the fifth village they visit, when their journey is almost over and Regina is silently praying for days and nights to run faster so she can hide away from the judgment that is being bestowed upon her, a woman with an ailing child begs for help that Regina can’t possibly provide. Tears in her eyes and pleading in every word falling from her mouth, the woman holds a babe no older than three months Regina’s way, his anguish cries stabbing Regina’s chest physically, making her throat feel tight. The child is afflicted by the common vomits that sometimes claim such young children, and even through the blotchiness of his face and the wetness of his tears, Regina spies a sweet face, a roundness on his cheeks that seems to want to deny any sort of fever.

“They say you have mystic power, milady,” the woman wails at Regina, desperation obvious in every word. “Please, help my child, please… please…”

The word falls like a litany from her mouth, cumbersome on Regina’s shoulders, a prayer that she doesn’t know how to answer. She has no power that can heal this child, not even if her healing magic were stronger than it is. She can cure nothing but scraps and cuts, and this woman’s cries make her feel inadequate even in something that  she owns with so much confidence as her magic.

She finds her own hands splayed over her own belly when she answers, a stuttery and unsure, “There is nothing I can do for this child,” falling from her parted lips.

That night, she hides herself inside her own carriage, dismissing the comforting embrace Snow wishes to offer her at seeing her so affected by the mother’s plight. Snow can’t comfort her properly, though, not when she doesn’t know that there is true magic cursing through Regina’s veins, magic that fails to be what these people need it to be; and not when she doesn’t know that Regina failed to save her own child, and so she can’t possibly save another’s. Looking at her own hands, powerful and powerless in equal measure, Regina sees what people must truly see when they look at her, a haughty and sad queen that they fail to understand, so harsh in her decrees that surely something dark must loom above her, her dark clothes making her something akin to a priestess of death.

The rest of their journey plagues Regina with nightmares unlike she’s had since Daniel’s death, red and black conquering her dreams easily and keeping rest and peace away from her. She becomes closed off and sterner, fails to even try and put on a neutral face for those around her, not when she’s consumed by rage against this world that keeps taking everything away from her, blaming her for everything that ails it, and forcing her to be something that she can’t possibly ever become. In her restlessness, she longs for Daniel, for his sweet voice and the way he loved her then bright and hopeful heart, for the girl that she once was and who died in the stables back at the manor that same night Daniel’s heart was crushed. She longs for Bernie, for his hands full of honey, his dimpled smile and his beautiful dark skin, for how he’d lighted the last sprig of hope left in her heart. She longs for Maleficent, for her scent and her indulgent madness, for the way she had loved the broken pieces of Regina’s heart and the way she had helped glue them back together with stubborn determination. And unwittingly, she longs for mother too, for a guiding hand and a purpose, for the hard earned slivers of her love and pride.

Finding none of the love she craves, Regina beds one of the members of her guard, pulling him far into the dark woods and having him push her up against a tree, where he can hold her smaller body up and have her in quick and hard thrusts. He’s young and impressionable, one of the newest recruits to her ranks, and he’s thankful even as he’s fucking her, perhaps thinking that sexual encounters with her servants is something of a common occurrence for her and that he's been finally favored. He’s sweet too, and a little worried when she asks for him to go harder, deeper, when she wishes for his fingers to etch purple marks into her skin. She fails to climax, and after feeding the lover that only now she realizes is too much of child a memory potion to forget their encounter, she empties her stomach under the same tree where she’s been taken. She laughs when she’s done, bitterness in the peals of her laughter, and pain clogging her chest. She needs to stop whatever it is that she’s doing to herself, that much she knows, even as she’s letting herself be claimed by lunacy. She needs to stop, and yet, the words that she once told father resonate within her, making her heart beat wildly with certain darkness, and a wish to unleash her own pain on a world that has been nothing but unkind to her.

 _Daddy, I don’t know how to stop anymore, I don’t want to stop anymore_ , she’d once said. Then, it had been a pained plea for someone else to stop her; now, it is nothing but a promise not to allow herself to do so.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) You must rest, cielo.
> 
> (2) You're strong and beautiful and extraordinary, but you're good, too, cielo.
> 
> ...
> 
> Er, also if anyone is for some reason interested in investigating super disgusting medieval diseases and having nightmares forever, this particular one was based on the bubonic plague (and you know, if anyone is super twisted I highly recommend Albert Camus' _The Plague_ which my dad totally thought was an appropiate read for my easily traumatized fourteen year old self and for which I haven't forgiven him yet).


	5. Part V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW1: Implied eating disorder.
> 
> TW2: Mentions of past marital rape and past emotional abuse.
> 
> TW3: Mentions of past miscarriage.
> 
> TW4: Also, the farther this goes the more it deals with Regina's Evil Queen tendencies, so canon compliant type of violence.
> 
> -
> 
> AN1: canon character death.
> 
> AN1: Translations in the notes at the end :)

 

The days before the summer see Regina coming back from their tour around the kingdom with enough swirling thoughts to make her forget herself completely. She postpones her meeting with the council even when all its members are anxious to know how the kingdom outside the protected walls of their palace is truly faring, and swiftly ignores any raised eyebrows her odd attitude provokes. Just as well, she adjourns each and every expected afternoon of shared tea with the ladies of the court, even discouraging Baroness Irene from pushing for a meeting with her. If this confuses the court or creates any rumors she doesn’t find it in herself to care, feeling despairingly insane after being exposed to the true thoughts of a kingdom that she’d hoped would have something akin to gratefulness for her. She hasn’t dared ask for something as elusive and capricious as love, after all, and the fear and displeasure that consistently received her in every visited village still nags at her, throwing her into a spiral of doubt and irate self-righteousness. How dare they, after all? How dare they make a heinous and malevolent witch out of her when she has been nothing but selflessly hard-working and practical? But of course their ignorance would prompt them to choose Leopold’s vapid and empty kindness over her own meaningful gumption.

In the face of such absurdity and forced to deal with unparalleled hysteria, Regina locks herself up inside her own bedchambers and stews in her own feelings for days, pacing the room intermittently at times and simply sitting down and staring at nothing for other long restless moments, succumbing to her own savage ire then and breaking whatever is at reach. Sleep eludes her with as much consistency as it had during the last leg of their journey, still plaguing her with shapeless nightmares that she fails to understand. There’s something entirely too similar to fear in her dreams, and she feels dismayed that she doesn’t know how to stop them, and can merely fight them by refusing to close her eyes. Sleep does claim her, however, but only out of sheer exhaustion. Her own stubbornness sees her asleep on a chair or the floor, slumped against the wall or resting awkwardly over the surface of her desk rather than her bed, which remains unmade and with torn bed sheets she ripped herself in a fit of rage and now refuses to change. Her unrest only leads to more agitation, and she truly feels like she must be losing her mind, never mind that her carelessness seems to be only aiding the process.

Her stomach feels ill and shaken, stiff when her mind turns to the thought of food. On the first day of her self-imposed imprisonment, she’d indulged in the full table that had been presented to her in her bedchambers, numbingly craving something to fill the void that the travelling had left within her. The bout of hunger had lasted but a night, though, and now she feels queasy at the mere thought of food touching her tongue, texture and flavors a reminder of a body that feels inadequate and that she wishes to forget. Consequentially, she only dares eat when her monthly bleeding hits her hard enough to cramp her up painfully and have her body demanding nourishment, but even then, she prohibits herself from enjoying her meal, choosing to feed herself with an unsavory porridge that makes her sick almost immediately after pushing the first spoonful past her lips.

Hungry, restless and pained, she feels at her wits’ end, and so she allows her steps to guide her towards her balcony, lets her fingers curl around the railing, weak under her powerful hands and an absurd barrier between herself and a fall that would surely kill her. Not for the first time, the thought assaults her easily and stupidly, the ragged breathing that had once seemed to her like proof that she must keep living now only one more burden to bear in what seems to her like a too heavy life. Her limbs are tired and her mind is numb. Her soul, if it still rests somewhere within her, has withered and hidden away where she can’t reach it, and her heart, broken so many a time and sewed back up carelessly with nothing but determined anger feels about ready to give up on her.

It seems like such an easy feat, then. Jump, let go, never be hungry again, forget and forgive and simply not _be._ Lack of existence feels like the easiest of steps in that moment, brave even within its own cowardice, freeing even if mind-numbingly final. One step and no more madness; one step and no more pain, and how can Regina deny herself such sweet mercy?

Eyes half closed as she stares into the night sky, nothing but the soft breeze stops her thoughts. Cool spring wind blows against her face, wisps of her loose and impossibly tangled hair flying before her, getting into her eyes and her dry mouth, tickling under her nose and around her cheeks. One long and gasping breath of frigid air and Regina steps back from the railing, her eyes focusing back until she’s looking at her now fisted hands rather than at the dark emptiness before her. She laughs, uncoiled, a little deranged. The sound feels harsh to her ears, loud in the quietness of the night around her despite the whisper of the rustling wind, but it feels good, too, steadier than anything else has for the past few days of mindless breakdown. She’s alive, impossibly alive, burning up inside but capable of feeling cold sweep around her skin, and surely she deserves each and every single one of these simple feelings; at least, she deserves them more than she deserves the martyr-like death of a sad little queen not strong enough to survive those around her.

Scowling and puckering her lips, she hugs herself, protecting her own limbs from the cold but staying outside for a while longer, feeling the fabric of her loose nightgown caress her legs as it sways with the breeze, breathing in slowly even as the naked skin of her hands and face turns taut with the cold, her nipples hardening under the thin fabric of her nightwear, the hairs in her arms standing up on end and her nose running uncomfortably watery the longer she stands there, still and perhaps permanently damaged, but alive nonetheless.

It’s still long before Regina makes her way back inside, but when she does, her senses are calm and steady, her mind empty of the buzzing that had clouded it before and suddenly beginning to focus on her own ragged state. As soon as she’s inside the room, she realizes that her chambers are just about as cold and dark as the balcony outside, only the walls hiding her away from the chilly breeze. With a groan and a quick swipe of her hand, she lights up her fireplace and walks to stand before it, willing the heat to build inside her as well as inside the room. The orange and warm light hits her, and abruptly, she feels itchy and dirty, the realization that she has been driving herself mad for over a week and refusing to change her clothes only now completely hitting her. She frowns, disgusted at herself. Her nightgown is sticking to her, the fabric heavy and sweat-stained and goodness but she smells disgusting, rotten and decaying, as if death was indeed clinging to her. Her hair, cumbersome and seemingly trying to pull her down, feels oily when she touches it, tangled and knotted when she tries to comb through it. She can’t help but think of how terribly disappointed mother would be if she were to catch sight of her, and just this once, Regina can’t help but agree with her ever-present ghostly shadow, for surely there is nothing about her that doesn’t speak of pathetic defeat.

Huffing at herself and finding a new resolution lighting up her spirit, if only because she knows that cleanliness will make her feel immediately better, she orders a bath and a meal to be brought up to her, never mind the late hour. Most chambermaids are used to her late night rituals, anyway, and her severe woman has never before been surprised by any of Regina’s odd requests. Once the bath is set for her, she removes her nightgown swiftly and throws it into the fire, disgusted by its smell and by what it represents, and then slides into the entirely too hot water, relishing the almost painful feeling of it against her skin. Her flesh turns red at the touch of the silky liquid, but once it gets used to the boiling sensation she finds herself breathing more steadily, the visible steam coming from the water helping her along. She dunks herself completely inside the water, awkwardly curling all her body inside the small tub just so she can wet her hair and get all her skin humid and hot. When she comes out, breathing in a big gasp through her mouth, her lady’s maid is fixing the bath with flowery scents and salts, the smell of lavender and jasmine filling her senses up farther and helping her finally relax. She leans back against the tub, her limbs delightfully lazy once she rolls her shoulders pleasantly.

She rests inside the water for a long time, letting it cool down just so she can reheat it again, the cinnamon like smells of her magic joining the atmosphere inside the chambers pleasantly. Regina, eyes open as she stares at the ceiling while her woman washes her hair thoroughly, feels immensely pleased, the simple act of cleansing herself enough to bring back her common sense. Where she has been feeling unhinged for the last few days, she feels utterly calm now, almost coldly so. Her breathing steady and her limbs rested, something like an eerie quietness conquers her, focused where she’s been all over the place as of late.

Licking her lips, moist and humid from the vapors of the steaming water already, she wonders out loud, “Would you blame me if I killed them all? Would anyone?”

She receives no answer, but then, she expects none. She doesn’t have one herself, doesn’t even know what she’s asking; who are those that she wishes to kill, after all, and who would be left to blame her if she were to rain death upon everyone in her path? Would she care if they were to blame her, anyway, would she feel guilt over those who have been nothing but ungrateful towards her? Hardly, she thinks, for surely she deserves revenge and justice, and everyone else guilt over the pain they have caused her.

No matter what, Regina knows she won’t be getting any answers, certainly not from her lady’s maid, but not from anyone else. She allows herself a fleeting moment of deep grief for the lost guiding hand of mother, but then she doesn’t need her here to know what her advice would be. Conjuring her image is easy, dark blue dress and stern eyes, veiled softness in expressions that only Regina had ever known how to uncover. Mother had spoken her desires well before Regina could understand them, or have the power to accomplish them. _Leopold is a weak man,_ mother had told her once, and how stupid had Regina been to doubt her words. Regina had spied the weakness in Leopold during their first night together, when he’d refused to look into the eyes of his very obviously despairing and scared child bride, but it was only later when she had understood what that weakness should cost the man. His life, in exchange for Regina’s last exhale of sanity, and what a low price to pay for the long and privileged life that he’s led.

Later that night, once Regina has finally left her bath and is carefully picking her way through soft white rice and steamed up vegetables, wishing that she’d taken better care of herself and could stomach something stronger, she allows tiredness to settle on her frame. She will need rest now, she knows, for if she wishes to stay alive and not succumb to her madness, then she must stop the game that has been claiming her soul for the past decade. There will be no more playing, and just like in any good game of chess, for the game to stop, the king must die.

 

* * *

 

A year passes, the summer running short and frost covering the palace yet again in the coldest winter they’ve had in years. It’s a year of calm and restfulness, one in which the kingdom thrives under lack of critical urgencies, and in which routinely activities guide them all in a way that feels as if they’re all small parts of a well-oiled machine. The palace, which had been filled up to the brim when fear of sickness had still clouded the mind of most noblemen, finds itself now free of such pressures, and so it easily regains its constant yet changing flux of visitors, once again worried by gossip and very little else. Baroness Irene, who had been wary of Regina after the slights she had been victim of during the past year, comes back to the fold easily, a few shared afternoons of sweet pastries and fake laughter enough to convince her that she remains Regina’s best friend, needed now more than ever after the stress suffered by Snow’s brush with death.

The council and its meetings settle easily into a routine as well, the men now used to Regina’s leadership, or perhaps simply having given up on Leopold completely. Whether the reasons for the acquiescence of her authority are one or the other Regina doesn’t care, simply content in the knowledge that protests and opposition are nothing but tokens of proud men who occasionally need to rebel under the leading hand of a young queen. There is a sedate pace to their work now, though, for which Regina is thankful, for it grants her space and peace enough to think before she acts, and to keep her emotions in control with masterful ease. She still keeps a pointed and calculated eye trained on each of the council members, never completely trustful of loyalties that have been hard-earned and that sometimes reek of falseness, but she soon realizes that fear of her persona has extended to the court, and that the men may not just respect her, but are actually wary of her as well. This serves her just right, and even makes a flare of powerful pride settle well within her whenever she stands tall by her side of the council table.

A month after her return from her travels, she appoints a new Law Advisor, giving the particular spot to the Treasury Master’s niece, a fifty year old duchess with an ugly and severe face crowned by graying hair that Regina has turned to on more than one occasion in the past. Duchess Adela is her uncle’s caretaker and is well-versed in many a subject, her education having run under the hand of a stern and widowed father that had wished for a son, and so had simply educated his one and only daughter as he would have a boy. The duchess isn’t particularly pleasant, not in her looks or her disposition, but she’s blunt and intelligent, and while she has sometimes referred to Regina as a _foolish little girl_ , she has proven to be respectful enough when needed. Aiding Regina’s choice, of course, is also the fact that she’s a woman, and if only for that scandalous factor, Regina favors her over any other candidate presented to her by the rest of the council.

“We will be talking about dresses and shoes at our meetings at this rate,” the Master of Ships had grumbled at the announcement of her appointment, but a single pointed look from Regina had been enough to shut him up, and any other following commentary on the matter. Regina had relished the power so easily granted, when only a couple of years before she would have spent entirely too long a time jumping hoops just to be listened to.

On every other aspect of her life, Regina fights her most basic instincts, which speak equally of indulgence and carelessness, and instead forces herself into a carefully crafted schedule. Aided by father and her lady’s maid, she takes on every aspect of her life as if it were a mere practical task, and so she sets herself mandatory periods of sleep and nourishment, so as to keep herself well-rested and well-fed. She goes back to her old habit of taking two meals a week with Snow, an old custom that the princess is more than happy to comply with. Snow has grown quieter over the last few months, or perhaps simply more pensive, Regina gathers. Whether her thoughts rest within politics or completely different matters Regina can’t tell, but she finds this Snow both easier to deal with and easier to despise at the same time. Regina’s feelings for Snow have simmered into something constant but dull that thrums under her skin, a sort of anticipation of what’s to come, perhaps because the princess’ punishment has taken a back seat for now, when all of Regina’s senses are waiting for the right moment to strike against Leopold, or perhaps simply because despite her usual candidness and naiveté, Snow has grown as wary of her as her council, and is shier around Regina than she’s ever been before. Gone is the girl that would blabber to her about anything and everything, substituted by a woman who prefers to discuss her readings and interests in a quieter manner.

Where Snow has grown more careful around Regina, though, Leopold has become almost comfortable in her presence, perhaps as he’s never truly been before. Freed of the obligations of a kingdom that he’s ceded to Regina without putting up a fight, he indulges in long walks and prolonged mindless chats with the most colorful strangers he finds during his time out of the palace, foreigners arriving to their coasts that Leopold invariably drags to his palace and introduces to his family with foolish glee. He seems genuine in his affection, almost, when he grandiosely speaks of _my daughter, Snow White, and my wife, the queen._ Regina keeps an eye on said strangers if only because Leopold makes no distinction between pirates or foes, and she won’t be having her silverware snatched away because of the king’s whims.

Truth be told, Regina suspects that Leopold has gone a little unhinged, stress or perhaps simple age making him loopy. When Regina expresses her concerns to the Royal Doctor, the man refuses to concur with her assessment, but Regina spies enough sweat on his forehead to confirm that he probably believes the king to have succumbed to a small bout of lunacy. If that isn’t the case, Regina doesn’t care, especially because the king is at his most placid in this new state of his life. While he remains possessive and vigilant of Regina’s carefully planted information – one well-crafted fake diary and enough correspondence to assuage the king’s mind – he finds comfort in spending time with both her and Snow under her apple tree, and in the few occasions in which he catches Regina’s gaze, he smiles unassumingly rather than flinch. As much pleasure as Regina has derived from making this man squirm under her gaze, she’s willing to give him the gift of the comfort of his own folly; it’s more of a gift than he’s ever bestowed upon her, and he should be glad that she’s amenable enough to grant him peace before ending his life.

Her own kindness surprises her when it comes to this matter. After all, there are so many open wounds still that have been caused by Leopold and that have driven her mad through the years that the calmness with which she regards him these days can be nothing but unexpected. She wants to think that it comes from the sheer expectancy and joy of the death that she can almost taste, but she suspects that it has a lot more to do with how pathetic Leopold seems to her. She has found him lamentable for as long as she’s known him, but she had never been able to let go of the most deeply rooted sense of fear of him, the memory of his looming figure above her still persistently hurtful, the feeling of being naked and used while trapped between his clumsy hands one that she will never be able to cleanse herself of off completely. Now, though, spying his ludicrous behavior she can’t believe that she ever felt anything but contempt for this man, never mind that if he cared to exploit his own title and authority he would be able to undo her hard work of years with a single swipe of his hand. He obviously has no interest in ruling the kingdom, no spirit to do so either, and so Regina’s already thin sheet of fear for him has evaporated completely and left nothing but disdain behind, granting the king reprieve from Regina’s vicious wish to disturb his peace.

If Leopold is to have reprieve, though, then so is Regina herself. She firmly believes that she has a good grasp of her own behaviors by now, even the worst patterns that she seemingly doesn’t know how to escape from. Therefore, she knows that if she doesn’t allow herself a sigh of freedom, she will succumb again to violence and despair, invading the calmness that has settled over the palace and making her harsh before those that she still needs in her corner. She’s known reprieve before in the arms of past lovers, in short letters scrawled by the childish hand of a lost prince, and sometimes, under father’s loving care. Rather than allow herself to run away as she’s done before, though, she adds breathing moments into her patterned lifestyle, and uses her own monthly cycle as an excuse to hide herself away from the court, giving herself freedom while trapped by the incessantly painful plight of her womanly condition.

For a year and once a month, she takes time to simply _be,_ a concept so foreign that the first time she locks herself away behind her own doors she finds herself giving into a bout of severely buried nostalgia, crying as she did the first time mother had explained her wifely duties back when she’d been twelve and still unmarred by the truth of the future predicted mother’s words. Nostalgia turns into a theme for her during those resting times, for she reserves at least one of her nights for father and dark chocolate, for his shoulder under her cheek and for her hands resting comfortably within his. She feels as if a part of her is reaching back for the girl that she once was, stupidly clinging to an innocence that has been lost for years now; there is no part of her that remains uncorrupted, not her body, her soul or her heart, and clinging to such notions expresses a weakness that she can’t afford, and that disrupts her otherwise confident disposition.

Rides atop _Rocinante_ become one of her favorite activities during those nights as well, never mind that galloping above him when her breasts feel too full and heavy and her back stabs painfully at her seems like a fool’s errand, particularly when riding her horse is something she does at least once a week on regular circumstances. There’s freedom in trotting outside of the palace’s state and into the woods at night, the cool breeze on her face and the strength of _Rocinante_ under her tantalizing enough that she feels tempted to run away and never come back. If she doesn’t, it’s because whenever she finds herself alone with her horse the thought of Daniel persecutes her, his never forgotten ghost demanding the revenge that she’s so nearly touching with the tip of her fingers, and that has been her true and final purpose for a decade now.

She finds comfort in long baths, too, and when the warm water and her body contorted inside a small tub feels too stifling, she transports herself to the cold waters of a lake, bathes naked under the moonlight, enjoying the way the silky and freezing liquid lays claim to her tired limbs and touches her skin like a balm. Later, she lays herself down by the shore, the hard soil under her back rooting her to the ground and making her aware of every inch of her own body, the reminder of her own physicality one that she desperately craves when she’s given up on finding lovers that are both pleasing enough and worth the risk of an affair. It would be a shame, after all, to be discovered as the adulterous wife that she’s been in the past now that she’s so securely claimed her place as the ruling monarch, and to be undermined and condemned for daring to find pleasure where Leopold’s bed has given her none. She learns to touch herself with reverence, her own hands more careful than they’ve ever been, tracing the planes of a body that has been both accomplice and traitor, but that is as much hers as it has ever been. Her breasts are full and firm, her hips bigger than they had been when she was a child, her shoulders thin but strong, her neck long and her collarbones sharp, her skin smooth in most places, only ever marred by the scar that remains low on her belly. She forces herself to touch it with care as well, rather than scratch at it maliciously as she does when the memories of what it never was condemn her as a bringer of death. It’s a flaw, a sign of past weakness, but it belongs to her just as well. It may be one of the only visible scars, but she’s far more blemished, and if there is one thing she knows, is that every single one of her past wounds, hidden under new and healed skin, is a simple reminder that she will endure, for there is nothing else that she knows how to do.

She thrives in the quietness that she wraps herself in, her masks and carefully woven personas easier to maintain when she has moments to feel like her own person, whoever that may be – someone angry and hurt, desperate for retaliation and yet hungry for roots and control the she doesn’t need to carefully manufacture. Where she has driven herself mad with rage before, now she becomes her own ire, takes it in much as she took her magic, as another limb to call forward whenever it is needed. Her fury burns hot then, but rather than create a hazy cloud of purposeless steps, much as it has done for most of her life, it focuses her, gives her razor sharp instincts and settles close to her heart, holding it together and hiding it away, putting it behind unbreakable walls, where no one can reach it again.

 

* * *

 

Snow turns twenty-one years old and there are no festivities to be had. Leopold is not interested in such matters anymore, and while Regina intends for them to have a small ball at least, Snow pleads with her to have no celebration beyond a small family dinner. Regina concedes her wishes, entirely too preoccupied by other matters at hand to spend her time preparing celebrations that will grant her no peace, and that will surely awaken the rumor mill at the court once again, reminding the world of the lack of royal children running amok in the palace. Despite all that, a small part of her ends up regretting the decision, a strange sort of nostalgia making her long for the balls of her past; despite mother’s calculated intentions, after all, Regina had always enjoyed the dancing and the lights, and the past years have been so bleak that perhaps music and colors is precisely what they need. Carefully, she even dreams of the simple joy of dancing between father’s arms, no rhyme or reason to their movement, and laughter free of gloom. Alas, there’s no ball, and the small mockery of a family dinner she plays with both Leopold and Snow only manages to upset her. They barely speak as they share their meal, Snow sullen and Leopold distracted, and Regina drinks too much of a strong wine that she doesn’t even particularly enjoy, thus ending her night with a peculiarly heavy headache that doesn’t let her sleep properly.

The small dinner proves to be an omen of uncomfortability, for despite the lack of celebrations, the court feels no qualms about speaking of how it is certainly time for Snow to be married if the royal line is to be kept unblemished. The chit-chat angers Regina, making her feel easily dismissed once again by a court that she had thought conquered already. There is a very obvious expectancy for Snow to be married and for the crown to fall upon both her head and whoever her future husband might be once Leopold dies, and the fact that Regina is simply expected to step aside and give up her rights makes her feel both inadequate and resentful. The words _barren_ and _insufficient_ follow her around, even the odd _exotic_ making an appearance in the mouths of noblemen. Regina ignores them all as best as she can, turning cold eyes to this forever scrutinizing court and ploughing on through her days as if she were completely oblivious.

If there is something that soothes her, though, it’s Snow’s own aggrieve about the gossip reaching her own ears. She’s so very obviously distressed by the talks of marriage that Regina can barely hide a smirk at the permanent thoughtful discomfort etched into a newly earned frown, which Snow hides for no one, much less Regina. It’s certainly refreshing to be able to secretly mock her for her anguish, a balm against the resentment so firmly settled on her breastbone at being always thought of as a second choice to the beautiful princess. There will come a time to break havoc upon Snow’s reputation, but for now, Regina can pettily relish the thought of her anxiety.

Snow’s age, though, had earlier that year been reason enough for Regina to reduce their lessons to a single afternoon a week, the princess entirely too old to be receiving homework and tasks. Truth be told, Regina had simply held onto whatever feeble excuse she had concocted in order to spend little to no time trapped with Snow in her bedchambers, no meal to buffer their interactions. One afternoon a week remains, though, as a quiet time for reading or slow walks through the gardens, both of them favoring the physical activity and whatever scents the season may offer. Regina wonders if one day, she may come to miss these quiet times with this young woman that is so twistedly tied to her own life, if some part of her will long for the little sister that Snow may have been in a different life, for a love pure and untainted where theirs had been poisoned from the beginning. It’s a daunting thought, but Regina rejects it steadily, positive that she will hate keeping Snow alive much more than she will miss her once she’s gone.

One late evening, as they traipse slowly through the gardens, Snow asking if Regina would like to rest by the apple tree for a while, they get rudely interrupted. Baroness Irene, ever informal, cuts their walk short, and claiming that they must escape the chilly eventide, forces both her and Snow into one of the communal chambers of the palace where warm sweet tea awaits them. Regina can’t help but be curious, the baroness’ interest in Snow having never gone beyond gossip before, and the woman certainly more interested in Regina’s own opinions of the girl than the girl herself. Snow seems equally dumbfounded at being invited along with them, but Regina refuses to share any sort of accomplice look with her, never mind her own puzzlement. Pleasantries and boisterous laughter give way to what Baroness Irene truly wishes to speak about, rumors that Regina has so easily dismissed that she’s surprised when the baroness voicing them immediately has Snow settling herself into the most rigid posture possible.

“Now tell me, my dear beautiful princess,” the baroness says, a wink thrown towards Snow and a coy look shared with Regina, “is there any truth to these rumors about a soon to be made engagement for yourself? And by gods, who is the young man? Most bets fall upon King George’s son, and I think they may be right.” The baroness sing-songs this last part, fingers waggling playfully before Snow’s face, the princess’ expression showing as much polite distress as simple dread.

Regina wants to laugh, if only because Snow looks so out of her depth that she must take a moment to answer. She takes pity on her instead, and playfully scolds the baroness. “Now, dear, leave the princess alone; surely you know better than to believe such gossip by now, baroness.”

The baroness doesn’t relent, though, rather spending the rest of their shared time fully explaining every single rumor running around the court, clearly delighted and obliviously disregarding of Snow’s silence. Regina doesn’t deny herself her own fun over the matter, and actually listens to what the baroness has to say, which reveals nothing more than what Regina was already aware of – the court is thirsty for a royal marriage, Snow’s age and her preoccupying brush with death having threatened to leave the kingdom heirless. Marriage hangs upon the princess’ head like a bad omen, and Snow is so very clearly discomfited at the idea that she can barely hide her own nervousness in front of someone as vapid as the baroness is.

Every time there’s a question directed at her, Snow takes a moment to answer, clearly intending to gather herself but failing miserably, so that she looks sullen and entirely too afflicted, her dejection written not only on her face, but also in her tense shoulders and the way her hands keep wrinkling the fabric at the lap of her dress, light green taffeta tortured between thin fingered hands. The image is uncomfortably familiar to Regina, and if she’s ever spied a mirror image of herself in Snow, then it certainly has never been quite like this. She’s seen pride and stubbornness in her, a sigh of a fighting spirit that she’s admired despite her wishes to hate everything about the girl, but she’s never seen this kind of discomfited anguish, this sudden realization of duties and real life. Snow looks like Regina had felt the first time she had been faced with the physical reality of Leopold, when the king had intended to be kind to a wife that he would come to abhor and had offered a gift, and when all Regina had been able to think about had been how his hand holding hers felt like the heaviest of shackles.

Snow leaves that meeting clinging to Regina’s arm for support, pale as a sheet, her skin clammy with cold sweat. It’s enough to draw a smile from Regina, for as much as she knows that Snow will not be marrying, not on her watch, she doesn’t feel particularly inclined to disambiguate the notion from the princess’ head. Let the girl think that there’s a marriage in her near future, let her feel a smidgeon of Regina’s own misery, let her be the guiding hand of Snow’s anguish in the same way Snow’s had been her own. And how petty it is to enjoy such a silly lie, but then, Regina has never been above frivolous entertainment, and Snow is certainly her most favored clown and provider.

Looking at her on the days that follow, such misery staining her otherwise beautiful eyes, Regina wonders if an unwanted marriage wouldn’t be the worst of punishments for this child that has so refused to look at reality in its truest forms. An eye for an eye, Regina figures, and maybe she should forget about ripped hearts and murder plots and instead offer Snow’s virtue and innocence to an old king who will despise her spirit and claim her body, who will make a desert out of the valley between her legs, who will fill her body with the parasite of children who will live under the dark omen of coming from the most loveless of marital beds. The simple thought of such an action on her part shakes Regina, makes something hot and pungent burn against her breastbone, an old but never quite healed wound drumming noise against her head and making her reject the idea with utter finality. Infinite sins, and yet Regina won’t condemn Snow to the shackles that she has worn herself.

On some of their afternoons together, Regina even finds Snow’s dark eyes firmly fixed upon hers, red-rimmed and scared even when the threat of a marriage is vague and little more than a rumor. Nevertheless, she’s begging Regina to understand, unwittingly calling to her own female condition without realizing what she’s doing. Regina doesn’t know what scares Snow so, if it’s the simple daunting thought of such a life-changing action as marriage, or the tangible reality of belonging to an unwanted and unknown man in every possible way. Regina knows Snow remains virtuous, her own mirror tricks and spies enough proof of the truth that Snow has spoken of herself during shared confessions – that she has been uninterested in every aspect of love for years know, her one single brush with the pain of heartbreak enough to drive her mind away from such things. Snow has known no lovers, and while Regina thinks a heart that has known no love would be kinder were the princess to be married, she can’t help but feel that her own marriage would have been a thousand times more painful had she not loved Daniel beforehand.

In the face of Snow’s turmoil, Regina finds herself unwittingly thinking of Daniel. She’s done such a good job of hiding the memories of him away that the small thoughts that come to her these days, unbidden and even upsetting for their suddenness, leave her feeling a little breathless, a little too vulnerable. It’s strange, she thinks, how many times she has repeated the circumstances of his death inside her mind’s eyes, how she’s spoken of mother’s hand disappearing inside his chest before the mocking ears of Rumpelstiltskin, or the disinterested gaze of Maleficent, but how little she’s actually allowed herself to dwell on thoughts of his life, of the man he was and that she loved so, that she loves still if she dares be honest with herself. There’s infinite sadness when she wonders if any part of Daniel would be able to love the woman that she is now, no vestiges of the girl full of hope that he kissed under an apple tree, nothing but angry vengeance to fill a heart that he had once satiated with pure unbidden love.

It is a sunny morning that finds Regina resting by her apple tree, her own yearning sentimentality pushing her to postpone a council meeting so she can look wistfully up at this tree that has become a symbol of everything that she once held dear, of a home that was darkened by a thunderous omen but that had given her love in all shapes and forms – the kind embrace of a father that still held some of his spirit, and the sweet reverence of a young lover that still makes her heart beat wildly. She feels a little stupid for her longing, and yet she clings to it, if only because sometimes she needs to prove to herself that there’s still a part of her capable of feeling such deep and unbridled emotion. She gives herself the gift of this quiet morning, driving thoughts of visiting neighboring kingdoms away from her mind if only for a few hours. King George has certainly been pestering her for a while now about a new trading agreement, and she knows his kingdom will the first visit in line, but if only for a short time, she forgets about demanding letters and questioning advisors, and breathes in the scent of fresh grass and ripe apples.

Despite the sun, and even when it’s one of the warmest days of the winter, the weather remains chilly, enough so that when Snow shows up to intrude on Regina’s quiet time without a proper cape over her dress, Regina scolds her unthinkingly, the motherly behavior etched into her very soul by sheer repetition. Snow isn’t in a particularly listening mood this morning, though, but rather shows an agitated disposition that has her pacing before Regina in a way that has already become familiar to her, and that speaks of Snow’s distress. It’s always a short cycle of steps, three at the most one way and then back, and accompanied by the flurry of her dress. Regina finds the whole cadence dizzying. Snow is… well, she’s _fuming_ for lack of a better word, and Regina would laugh at her tantrum if only she didn’t wish her gone with something close to desperation. Regina’s used to Snow’s ever intruding presence by now, though, and so she simply crosses her arms over her own chest and waits for whatever it is that the princess wishes to whine about.

The princess has been a bit of a nightmare in the past few days, the court seeing her at her most rebellious and bothersome, her face set on a permanently grim frown and her outbursts loud enough that the quietest of noblemen are starting to speak of the lack of a firm hand in the young lady’s education. Regina wants to laugh, wondering if this bunch of condescending people would have been happier had Snow been educated in the same manner Regina had, where the disposition she’s exhibiting as of late would have been quenched inside a dank and dark cellar, with foodless days and restraining spells. Regina certainly finds herself wishing that she had made use of such tactics in the face of Snow’s open sullenness.

“I will not be married, I shall run away, I swear, I will do–I will–” Snow’s saying, more childish in her lack of coherency than Regina remembers her being in years. It’s some frustrated minutes of floundering before she finally stops before Regina, a tightly clenched fist by her side and her lips set in a thin and serious line. “Regina, I do not wish to be married.”

“Snow, dear, do try not to throw a tantrum over this.”

“Oh, Regina, surely you must understand,” Snow says then, her demeanor turning from furious and into pleading so fast that it nearly gives Regina whiplash. Snow reaches forward with both palms outstretched, taking one step towards Regina and begging to hold her hands with every single pore in her body.

Regina doesn’t comply with Snow’s silent wishes, but merely questions the princess’ statement with, “Must I?”

Biting her lower lip, eyes nervously searching for something within Regina’s, Snow wonders, “Do you remember that boy from the stables? You once spoke to me of true love and–”

“Do _not_ speak of him. Do _not–”_ Regina cuts her own words short, choking on them as sudden bile rises up on her throat, her face obviously contorted into something unrecognizable that has Snow taking a step back instinctually.

Snow’s eyes look big and rounded, surprised by the strong harshness present in Regina’s command. Regina laughs, bitter and unhinged at the gall of Snow’s words, at the ignorant bliss present in her tone; such ignorance was Regina’s gift to her, a white lie so the princess wouldn’t understand the true consequences of a secret told, and never more than now has Regina regretted keeping the truth hidden, buried inside her under layers of unbridled pain. The mere mention of Daniel in Snow’s speech, though, the dismissiveness of her tone at naming _that boy from the stables_ as if he were nothing, little else than a stain in Regina’s otherwise clean past, has Regina choking in her own hatred, blindly searching for the chain holding a ring promising a future that never came to pass because this stupid, careless child before her thought she knew better, and claimed ownership of Regina’s life and Daniel’s death with the privilege of those raised in a world built to please them. Regina wants to reach out and choke her, squeeze the breath out of her lungs until she speaks no more.

Regina’s sudden discomfort only manages to pause Snow for a second, the princess too focused on her own particular brand of displeasure to imagine that there’s more to Regina’s outburst than simple annoyance. She’s never been too good at reading others, after all, and Regina has made such an art of hiding her own aching wounds that surely she can’t guess at the true reasons that made Regina interrupt her words.

Riding the wave of her own bravado and angry entitlement, Snow recovers the step she’d taken back seconds ago, pushing forward and into Regina’s personal space and stating with unwavering determination, “Maybe, maybe you truly are cold enough that you can just marry the highest bidder, maybe I should have believed the rumors that said you never loved father, but I will _not_ be as mindlessly cruel and untrue to myself as that.”

The slap rings louder than it feels against Regina’s open palm, and right after her hand has left Snow’s cheek, she vaguely thinks about how glad she is that she didn’t wear gloves today. She feels hazy, unfocused, as if time has suddenly stopped around them, the collective gasp of the few people crowding the gardens this morning enough that an air of suspension settles around them. Regina’s hand dangles in the air between them, her palm still outstretched, fingers tensed up and ready to strike again, but left lingering and alone. Snow remains just as still, eyes wide and scared, hands touching a reddened cheek as if needing proof of what just transpired.

Regina feels lost, her arm heavy when it finally comes down by her side, almost alien to the rest of her body. Never before has she hurt Snow physically, and never before has Snow deserved it quite as much as just now. The princess is looking at her with betrayal etched into her features, nonetheless, such brokenhearted deceit conquering her gaze that Regina feels accused of unforgivable crimes, of breaking something invaluable. And maybe that’s what she’s done, finally broken the fragile tendrils of the lie that she has been spinning for Snow for years now, of the compassionate and beloved mother, sister and friend that she has played with masterful ease as pain and hatred festered deeper and deeper inside her gut.

“Regina, I…” Snow finally mutters, but her words linger, doubtful, not knowing where to go, and her hand remains on the bruised skin of her cheek.

Regina blinks, as if waking up from a blurry dream, and realizes that she’s crying, unwanted tears marring her own cheeks and clogging up her throat painfully, making it _tighttighttight,_ as raw as the rest of her body feels. She welcomes the painful awareness, though, feels that if she lets go of the sudden hurt stabbed into her by Snow’s words her limbs will completely give up on her, weariness conquering her whole being and plummeting her to the ground. She’s tired, so very tired, and the memory of Daniel tugs at her, unbidden, asking for mercy and vengeance with equal fervor, for she knows Daniel would hate the executioner hand that she has become, but that she would hate herself for leaving his death go unpunished.    

Her hand comes up again, rests between them once more, her knuckles turned towards Snow this time so that she can softly caress the inflamed cheek in a way that is so very familiar to them now that Regina doesn’t even question the impulse. It never reaches its destination, though, if it’s because Regina doesn’t reach far enough or because Snow steps further away she doesn’t know, can barely bring herself to care. Snow’s eyes still scream fear, anguish written in tears that remain within her orbs, refusing to fall down but speaking of unmistakable treachery. Snow is looking at her anew, perhaps truly seeing her for the first time, and maybe Regina has broken more than she initially thought. But then. _Then_ she thinks of Daniel’s light eyes being conquered by eternal darkness, of her own back turned towards her father and years of biting her inherited language away from her tongue, of the fingers of an unwanted husband etched into the corners of her skin, of the empty spaces hollowing her out until she had nothing but rage to fill them with, and wonders if there has ever been anything between them that isn’t inescapably ruptured, if stolen moments of tenderness that Regina has hated herself for could ever make up for the pain that Snow intruding into her life has caused.

“Regina, I’m so sorry,” Snow says suddenly, her voice failing to be steady.

It’s too little, too late, though, and when Snow reaches out for Regina’s hand she’s no longer offering it. On the contrary, she’s keeping it closed, fisted and protected, far away so that Snow can’t get to it, can’t claim that which Regina hasn’t volunteered, the way she has been doing for as long as they have known each other.

Regina breathes in slowly, uses the intake of fresh and cold air to calm her senses, focus them again on the present situation and drive painful memories away from her. There is no point in dwelling in the past, no point in bringing it to the forefront when doing so could destroy her and all her work, kill her spirit to keep going. _You will endure, dear,_ mother had said, and she had made sure that she knew how to be strong no matter the circumstances – and if mother had failed to break her, then this bratty princess before her certainly won’t manage it either. Opening her fisted palm and trying to release the tension that has her body rigid and awkward, Regina shakes her hand and then brings it up to her face, swiftly cleaning tears away from it, erasing the material evidence of her moment of weakness. She swallows too, forcing the lump on her throat to recede, go down, die and wither under her own command so that when she speaks her voice is firm and unwavering.

“It is quite alright, dear,” she intones, her eyes perfectly fixed in the turmoil still present in Snow’s own gaze. “I do apologize for–” She motions in the general direction of Snow’s cheek, incapable of finishing her statement and covering her misstep with a small cough, if only just to buy herself some time. Quickly enough, though, she recovers and says, “Have Johanna put some ice on your cheek, and do stop fretting.”

“Regina, I really am sorry, I shouldn’t have said any of that! Regina…” And she repeats her name, enunciates it as if she can reach her just by speaking the syllables slowly enough.

Rumpelstiltskin would be proud of Snow’s unwitting use of the power of a name, but Regina is too far gone for any plead to reach her; even as Snow calls her, Regina is rebuilding walls and putting up barriers, making herself be cold and distant so as to push the sharp incursion of Snow’s insult and the consequent hurt stay far away from where it can cause further ache.

“It truly is fine,” Regina repeats, and she’s aloof in her tone, frigid as she stares down at Snow, her back unconsciously straight and her chin held high, her demeanor tall and untouchable, as inhuman as Regina can manage when there is still such riotous emotions cursing her insides.

Snow is left dumbfounded by her tone, looking at her with fear that defies itself, turning into something that goes far beyond, frightened in a primal and instinctual manner. Regina wonders at what Snow can possibly be seeing in her, if perhaps she has finally spied the priestess of death that the population has been more than happy to make her stand for, or maybe something different, something worse and akin to a personal nightmare. Whatever that may be, it’s skewed and dark, and it fills Regina up with a sense of dangerous power, with courage beyond recognition to become exactly what she needs to be so that this strength never leaves. She no longer has a place for fragility, and perhaps it’s the absence of vulnerability in her what Snow is spying.

The imperious prerogative follows her as she steps away from Snow, swiftly ignoring a last feeble attempt at an apology and making her way towards her bedchambers in measured steps. Her rooms are empty when she arrives, and she gladly locks the door behind her, squinting at the light entering the room and making a cloud of dust clearly visible before her eyes. She scoffs, wishing for colder and darker weather where she had enjoyed the sun early in the morning, and with a flick of her hand, she closes the heavy curtains and brings blackness into the atmosphere, breathing slowly once she can barely see. It hardly matters, not when she has counted the steps that make up this room a thousand times, trapped inside it by someone else’s will, bigger and nicer than the cellar back at father’s manor but equally stifling it its ripping of Regina’s freedom.

She _tsk-_ s at herself so as to drive the thought of entrapment away; these are her bedchambers, and soon there will be no one left to tell her that she must remain in them when she doesn’t wish it so. Breathing in, she conjures up a cup of sweet currant wine, which she has been favoring as of late in her meals and which she keeps unintentionally thinking Maleficent would thoroughly enjoy. She drinks slowly, calm and collected in ways that remind her of mother, of control beaten into her with a confusing mixture of harshness and pride. Then, with an angry sneer and a sudden move, she throws the overly adorned cup against the wall, hears it crash there and fall to the floor with a satisfactory _clank_ as the remainder of the dark drink spills there and reaches the corner of her bedspread, staining the white linen. Her eyes follow a path up the bed, where a lovely gown is resting for her to wear this evening for dinner. It’s big, puffy and dyed a shade of very pale blue, nearly white, and it speaks of an innocence that is so false to Regina’s persona that she finds herself staring away and towards the closed doors of her wardrobe. She smirks, slowly, and thinks that tonight, she will wear black.

 

* * *

 

It is a fortnight after the incident that Leopold comes back to the palace with one of his little stray pets trailing behind him, this one dressed in unfamiliar clothing and with skin so dark that there are raised eyebrows and murmurs the moment he steps foot inside the palace, so that by the time both the king and the stranger reach Regina, she has already gathered enough gossip to make her believe the man to be anything from a circus freak to a wealthy merchant.

Leopold does his grandiose introduction of both her and Snow, arms big as he boasts about his family in a way that makes them seem as the most joyous of companions. As it is, Snow has been wary of her ever since that morning by the tree, shy despite Regina making light of the event, and Leopold is no more part of Regina’s family than he’s been for the past decade. That doesn’t seem to matter to the king, though, who is at his loopiest when he’s weaving his tale, wistfully introducing Regina as _the queen,_ as if he truly wished that they were the family that his tone suggests they are. Regina, already used to the theatrics of these moments, allows them as she has been doing for the past year, ready to play the small part Leopold has given her in the representation and simply nod accordingly to the new stranger, and equally prepared to send one of her black guards to keep an eye on the king’s latest acquaintance. This time, though, when she lowers her head in silent salute and lifts her gaze coyly, dark and soulful eyes catch her gaze with intention, whoever this stranger may truly be looking at her as if the sun sets right inside her eyes, such obvious and unbidden admiration written on his face that Regina can’t help but smile. And if Regina is certain of one thing in life, then that is that she must seize whatever opportunity is afforded to her and use it to her advantage, and that gaze in this stranger’s eyes, that gaze spells nothing but opportunity.

He is a former genie, released by Leopold’s eternally generous hand, such act having etched the kind of gratefulness in the man’s mind that it may prove to be an obstacle. Regina has always liked a good challenge, though, and if she were to place bets on her beauty against Leopold’s wavering kindness, she wouldn’t doubt on trusting her own allure. For a little over a month, she entertains their guest to the best of her abilities, big eyes and earnest looks, lips set in a puckering pout that suggests secrets not willing to be disclosed. She speaks very little, thinking that her mystery will be perceived as fear of a belligerent husband, and as a habit of forced silence. She does listen, though, mildly interested in this man if only because of his foreign origin and strange powers. She has studied genie magic before, remembers Rumpelstiltskin’s dismissive frown at a power so lacking in precision and so full of trickery, but she still listens to the long list of desires this particular genie has given to his many masters, and even learns that he has a wish left for himself.

He is from Agrabah, a place full of mystery and shrouded in mythical stories. The Enchanted Forest people have never been too keen on gathering knowledge of such unfamiliar and faraway places, but Regina is genuinely thirsty for tales of the strange land, which she had once received from the squiggly and distracted penmanship of her little friend Prince Bernard. She asks for such stories now, and the genie is actually happy to comply, surprised at being listened to with such honest yearning.

“I had a friend from Agrabah once,” she finds herself confessing during a quiet night. “He used to send me sweets.” It’s wistful, a little too much of a little lost girl finding the crevices of her voice, and when he asks for further details, Regina merely smiles bitterly.

Sometimes, when he speaks, Regina feels a tug of pungent disgust at herself for using him so. If there was ever anyone in this court who would have understood her in any possible way, then it may have just been this man that she’s so easily trapping within her web, that she’s setting up to do her bidding without finding any sigh of regret within herself. A man condemned to servitude, looked at with wary eyes in this court that so fears that which is foreign, and he could perhaps become a kindred soul. It is a shame that those same qualities are precisely what make him such a perfect candidate for her cunning plan, for the court surely will not even stop to think about convoluted plots once the king dies at the hands of an outsider of such strange origins. Talks about the king’s late penchant for bringing unsavory characters to the palace have been reaching Regina’s ears for the past year as it is, so it will be poetic when his demise comes at the hands of one of his trusted favorites.

Regina wishes, wistfully, that she could find a shred of contrition for condemning the genie to be persecuted for the death of a king, but Regina doesn’t know how to be compassionate anymore, much less where it pertains a man that thinks to gift her a mirror when she begins spinning her tale of the woeful and abandoned life her heartless husband has castigated her with.

“A mirror,” she scoffs later that night in her own bedchambers, father’s hands busy combing her hair and her lady’s maid arranging a nightgown over the bed. “Honestly, tell a man that you are miserable and have them reassure you of your beauty. How predictable.”

“ _Pero es cierto que eres hermosa, cielo,_ ” father says to her, distracted enough in his mindless task that he probably doesn’t even know what it is that she’s speaking of. **(1)**

He’d certainly been disapproving when he’d learned of her wishes to make a lover out of the genie, and Regina doesn’t know what he’d say were she to confess that the man is actually her planned key in her plot to finally get rid of the king. She guesses that father wouldn’t oppose her, but she would rather avoid his disappointment for as long as she can.

She twists her mouth into a sneer tonight, failing to catch father’s eyes in the mirror when she tries, but speaking nonetheless. “I already know that I am beautiful, daddy, I do not need a stranger and a cheap mirror to tell me that.”

“May _I_ tell you, my little princess?”

Father smiles, small but spirited in ways that he hardly ever is these days anymore. He must know Regina can’t resist him, though, not when she so desperately needs the love that inevitably crawls upon his tone when they’re having one of their good moments, and so his smile only widens when Regina’s sneer turns into a grin.

“You may tell me as much as you like, daddy.”

Despite the genie’s obvious admiration for Regina, she builds her story carefully, making sure that there are no loose ends when it comes to her planning. She meets with him openly and with the court around them, but also under the cloak of the night, instilling such encounters with an air of secrecy, as if there is obviously something forbidden about their talks. She plays shy and discomfited for him, so that he thinks her saddened by Leopold’s treatment but anguished at the thought of betraying his trust. The genie eats it all up, and such a disposition helps Regina keep a prudent distance when it comes to his physical advances, so that he’s sure that they are involved in an affair when they haven’t gone beyond a kiss on the hand. He seems anxious for more, respectful of her but a little maddened by her played up demureness, which she so easily dresses up with soft looking gowns in light colors and transparent tulles that seemingly hide away her skin while giving enough glimpses to be tantalizing.

Regina grants him a kiss during a cloudy night when she feels him nervous and impatient, speaking of the possibilities of them running away together and leaving the palace behind. Pacing and twirling nervously herself, her hands fidgety and her expression contorted in doubt, the perfect picture of the wife about to be disloyal, Regina speaks woefully of a condemned future, of being forever persecuted by an angry and jealous king.

“I could not possibly ask that of you, my love,” Regina whispers, reaching for his hands as if she needs them to steady her own.

Adoration reflects back at her, and Regina wishes she could drop the act and smirk instead. She wonders whether he would like her as she truly is, vicious and calculating, so desperate to be rid of her jailor that she will stop at nothing, or whether he would be alarmed at such thoughts coming from her. She’s certainly tired of using this particular act, of playing the part of someone she has never been, not even at her youngest and most naïve, and it’s easy to despise him for enjoying her demeanor when she’s making herself seem so fragile and lost. She thinks, unwittingly, that Daniel would have laughed at her for this representation, would have mocked her in that kindly way of his that never failed to make Regina huff with indignation even as her heart beat wildly with loving amusement for the boy that loved her when she was smiling and defiant.

Thinking of Daniel, and as anxious as the genie before her but for completely different reasons, she stops his shallow words and reassurances with a quick kiss, knowing that it will be enough to appease him for a little longer. It’s chaste and dry, but Regina lets it linger for a moment, eyes closed and a heavy intake of breath, as if surprised by her own boldness. Lips pressed together and hands clasped between them, they must look like the perfect picture of tragic lovers, and Regina hates herself for being half of such a parody. Still, it’s not an unpleasant kiss, the genie’s lips plush and tasting of the herbs of that tea he so favors, and his skin the smoothest Regina has ever touched. She doesn’t want it, though, can’t possibly feel a spark of heat for the eyes that look at her with wonder and awe when he knows nothing of her, can’t even muster a sigh of respect when he’d claimed to love her the moment he’d set eyes upon her. King George had once called her beauty the most treacherous of allies, and in this particular moment, she thinks he may have been right.

After the kiss, she feigns surprised sorrow, stepping away from him and hugging her arms around her stomach when he tries to come closer, bring her into his embrace. Regina shakes her head and looks down, shame in her posture and disposition, sinking into her part with gusto since she has condemned herself to play it, and when he reaches out for her with a steady hand, she turns quickly and runs, fleeing the scene as if she can’t possibly bear their forbidden love.

She broadens the reach of her tale with old but effective weapons that have served their purpose on more than one occasion. With great care and actual delight, she fills pages upon pages of a diary that was false from the very beginning and only for Leopold’s benefit, writing of the hope of feeling love again, of the soft hands of a man so mysterious and loving that her heart beats with renewed desire at the mere thought of him and of passionate wishes of running away and never looking back, of giving herself to this new lover that adores her so. She knows for certain that Leopold absconds with her diary at least once a month, and that he has a copy of the key to her desk drawer where she keeps the precious yet fake memento, so that her written words will reach his attentive eyes in no time. Her knowledge of her husband’s worst habits is profound by now, and so far the man has failed to be anything other than predictable, so he will surely punish her by locking her up as soon as he’s sure of her fabricated feelings.

Deciding to set the court abuzz with quiet rumors as well, she turns to her ever faithful Baroness Irene, once again spinning the tale of the abandoned wife before confiding her secret affair with hushed tones and reproving words for herself.

“I must truly be a wretched woman, after all, to betray my king like this,” she says, hugging herself in a way that she has been doing more and more as of late as she finds it makes her look apologetic and as if she’s trying to make herself impossibly smaller, as if she’s trying to protect herself from her own thoughts.

The baroness is quick to offer a supporting embrace, in which Regina falls with a sigh and closed eyes, ever so grateful for her loyal support. Truth be told, for all of the woman’s irritating qualities, she has a very motherly touch about her, and if Regina forgets for a moment what she’s doing and why, she can even enjoy the care provided by her arms and her generous bosom.

Whispering, obviously not daring to speak words of treason too loudly even when they’re alone in the baroness’ favored bedchambers and firmly guarded by one of Regina’s black guards, she says, “My dear child, I fear no one would blame you for wanting–”

“Don’t, baroness!” Regina exclaims, alarmed as she opens her eyes even as she remains within the comfort of the woman’s arms. “Do not speak such things, do not…” She bites her lips, unsure, and then with eyes full of fear and uncertainty she murmurs, “Sometimes he talks of freeing me of the king in such a passionate way that I fear he may… So do not speak words of treason, baroness, not in the name of my disloyalty and weakness of spirit.”

As much as she hates the part she’s playing, there is a secret thrill to the game, and to how easy it is for her to laugh at this court that has tortured her so. She feels almost giddy, and consequentially though unwittingly she sinks into the worst feeling of loneliness, seeing as there is no one she can share her true self with. Loneliness isn’t new, though, and Regina is so used to it by now that sometimes she fails to identify the gloominess that overtakes her when something as common as fooling the baroness provokes laughter that she can’t freely share with anyone. She even goes as far as missing Snow, since the girl, for all of her generosity and faith in the world, has never been particularly fond of Regina’s so-called best friend and confidante. Usually, isolation and solitude don’t affect her beyond bouts of abrupt heartache that she easily translates into anger to fuel her through her days, but this latest plot of hers feels so momentous and game changing that she finds herself wishing for a friend that she’s never truly had. Or maybe she had, once, but she can hardly risk a trip to Maleficent’s fortress when she’s in the middle of such a ploy, lest she finds herself inclined to forget her goals.

While not exactly what she would could a friend, Rumpelstiltskin is at least someone that she doesn’t need to hide herself from, and seeing as he becomes the provider of the last piece of the puzzle, she has no qualms about disclosing her intentions in a smug show to match the imp’s usual theatrics. There isn’t much sense in hiding something that he has probably already guessed at, after all, since what Regina needs from him is a set of Agrabahn vipers that will be the perfect deadly weapon. In exchange, he asks for a vial of her tears, a strange request if Regina has heard any, and a price that she pays thoughtlessly, entirely too focused on the death that she can already taste to think of what kind of power such a gift may provide Rumpelstiltskin with.

“The tears of the future widow; fitting, wouldn’t you agree, dearie?” he tells her, and Regina can do nothing but roll her eyes at his need for poetics and symbols.

In order to tell her story as she must, Regina even sacrifices a fortnight of council meetings, if only to convince the genie of her lack of importance at King Leopold’s court, and if the council members speak unkindly of her womanly condition and her willingness to give up power in the face of forbidden love, then she takes the stain on her reputation as best as she can. It’s a risky move, but a calculated one, which pays off finally when Leopold falls into his designed slot, and predictively, forces her to stay locked up in her bedchambers after having read her diary, words of disappointment clouding his speech, always ready to doubt her virtue and think her wicked. For once in her life, Regina says nothing when he berates her, but rather lets him get his thoughts out as he looms over her for what will be the last time, bumbling old body that Regina has feared and despised with such trembling agony that she wishes she could laugh in his face and claim his murder for herself. He spares her one last look, standing by the door of her room with cloudy eyes filled with incomprehension, with the same eerie lack of peace that she has always awakened in him; and if she has made him suffer even a smidgeon of what she has undergone in his unwanted embrace and under his unmerited control, then she can let him go without reproach this one time.

Later, when the night is already giving way to one of the first few days of a sunny and mild spring that promises sweet scents and new life, King Leopold lies dead on his bed; the genie, whose wish had been to forever lay his eyes upon Regina, rests trapped behind a mirror; and Regina, queen and regent of a land earned with blood, flesh and tears, breathes in slowly, finally and for the first time in her life, _free._

 

* * *

 

The days that follow Leopold’s death are confusing all around, and they see the court swamped up in as much surprise as it does grief. Regina doubts the truth behind everyone’s tears, but she knows that the abrupt demise of the sovereign has been enough to rattle a court that may have been ready to accept the death of an old man by the exhaustion of age, but not by the murdering hand of the stranger that now dwells in Regina’s servitude. It seems to Regina that everyone wishes to bestow apologies and comfort upon her, but she avoids interaction both by busying herself with the practical matters that appear as consequence of a royal death, and by spending her leisure time in the company of Snow, begging noblemen and servants alike to understand that their mourning must be done in private. Regina knows, after all, that she must appeal to the court’s softness of heart, since the story filling everyone’s ears is that of the murder of the king due to a foreigner obsessed with the queen’s love.

Regina sends a commission of her Black Knights on a tour around the kingdom so as to spread the sad news, and decrees a period of mourning for the late king, sparing wineskins and mead as a means of quieting the laments of the population. She makes sure the kingdom is flooded with flowers, too, making of this spring a colorful time so as to make everyone celebrate the life of the king lost, rather than cry his death. She even writes a speech on the king’s virtues herself, exalting the old man’s kindness and love for his family and kingdom, and makes sure that the most talented bards of the land proclaim it through the forests, paths and villages, so as to make sure that they think the king passionately missed by the widow he has left behind.

The council agrees on a mourning vigil a week after the official date of the king’s death, so as to give time to the kingdom’s noblemen to flood the palace and share their pain with the king’s family, and Regina busies herself with the necessary preparations to receive such an amount of people, her face stonily set in a tight smile, as if work is her own personal way of getting through the anguish of having lost her husband, as if perhaps she feels responsible for posing such a temptation to an outsider so as to be cause enough to prompt him to violence. Truth be told, if Regina buries herself in practical matters is so her true feelings stay hidden somewhere behind her breastbone, low in her gut, lest she allows herself freedom enough to give in to them and ends up laughing maniacally when she’s supposed to be crying her heart out. Noblemen arrive soon enough from all over the kingdom, as well as letters from their neighboring allies, kings and queens alike presenting their respects and condolences, and invariably finishing their words with a flourishing _may the queen live long years._ Regina hides her thrill at the words well, but she brims with nervous energy, her breathing and wildly beating heart making her want to break into an unstoppable smile wherever she goes. _May the queen live long years,_ indeed.

Peasants from neighboring villages flock the palace as well, thirsty to pay their respects to the man they think their true ruler, and Regina makes sure that such thirst is quenched with tankards of beer and ale. She orders the kitchens to prepare rich smelling and warm breads as well, and even offers shelter in the shape of tents and covers for those who wish to remain for longer than an evening.

The third day after the king’s death finds Regina staring at the people gathered around the palace from the safety of her own balcony. It’s a warm spring day, and the midday sun is high up in a sky so blue that it suggests anything but the wailing air that surrounds the people within the palace. Outside, peasants drunk on their kitchen’s best ale look happy enough, their mourning easily taking the shape of a festivity even when the small flowery memorial resting by the palace’s doors keeps growing bigger and bigger with the presents of the villagers. Regina sneers at the sight, and after reassuring herself that her knights are doing a good job of keeping the crowds controlled, lest her generosity end up in an unwanted intrusion or a drunken tragedy, she sighs and makes her way back inside.

At her table, Snow plays absentmindedly with a section of a half-peeled orange, the color of the fruit making for a clashing contrast once she sets the uneaten piece against the lap of her black dress. The princess’ gown is big and heavy, and it seems to Regina that Snow is drowning in the dark fabric, her own usually lively color stolen away by the dreary garment. Regina herself is wearing black, but something light and comfortable, pants coupled with her corset and a soft blouse so that she can move swiftly and tirelessly when necessary, and she briefly wonders if she should bury herself in clothes similar to Snow’s, so as to make herself look like a mourning widow being dragged down by heartache.

Regina sits next to Snow wearily, dropping her weight on a chair indelicately. Her table is filled up to the brim with all sorts of treats, and Regina stares at it for a moment, and then at Snow’s empty plate. A year ago, a table like this would have been impossible, sickness and meagerness being the only truth surrounding the kingdom, but they’ve fairly recovered from that upheaval by now, and the queen’s table has nothing but fragrant fruits and rich smelling treats to offer, which the princess has steadily refused for the past couple of days. Regina has half a mind to force some food into her, but the familiar sight that is Snow makes her queasy and renders her unable to demand she feed herself. She would have never guessed the princess prone to Regina’s own kind of punishing regime when dueling with the grief of loss, and she fleetingly wonders if Snow will inevitably end up maniacally consuming anything on her grasp until she makes herself sick, much like Regina has done in the past.

If the princess is feeling weak and lifeless, though, Regina is the utter opposite, her hunger proof enough of her newfound freedom. She craves hearty meals, and when she reaches for some dried grapes and munches on them, her stomach growls, asking for something heavier. Regina doesn’t deny herself in this, not when eating is perhaps the one celebration she can allow herself in the eyes of others, and so she lifts the lid that covers the dish she ordered from the kitchens this morning, one of father’s favorites that Regina had often tasted in the early years of her life, before she had been made aware of mother’s ideas of the way a lady should behave herself at a table. The smell is rich and strong, and Regina spies Snow wrinkling her nose when it wafts up to her, the scent of the pork broth and plantain mixing with garlic in the air clearly upsetting the girl. Regina doesn’t mind her, and instead serves them both full plates of the warm concoction, smiling herself despite Snow’s obvious distaste.

Digging into her own plate with gusto, Regina stays quiet for as long as five bites, which do wonders for her unsettled stomach. Then, rolling her eyes with obvious exasperation and forgetting that she’d promised herself to simply let Snow be, she says, “Do eat something, dear.”

Her effort goes to waste, though, Snow remaining stubbornly still and quiet, her eyes set downwards as if even looking up is entirely too painful. Regina does lets her be then, eating daintily instead while the food on Snow’s plate inevitably begins to cool down, the broth becoming solid and sticky in a way that is almost disgusting. Regina figures she can send it all back to the kitchens later, have it fed to the servants or to their visitors so it won’t go to waste. Regina wrinkles her own nose at the thought, but ignores it easily by pouring herself a glass of sharp-tasting cider, the small pitcher of the tangy liquid pressed from her own apples and made especially for her table feeling heavy between her hands as she pours. She ignores Snow’s empty glass, reserving the drink just for herself.

As Regina finishes eating, she stares at Snow through half-lidded eyes, spying what she knows firsthand are the marks of lack of sleep and too much crying. Her shagging shoulders and her pulled-down smile make for a sad image, something tired and lacking fighting spirit having settled over the princess’ frame, her grief so quiet that it discomforts Regina. Her own agony is loud and destructive, and she wishes Snow had in it her to smash something or cry angry sobs rather than remain so unbearably stoic in the face of her father’s death. As it is, Snow has only broken in silent cries when thinking herself alone, much like she had when she was younger and she didn’t have Regina to get her through the ever hated birthdays filled up with the pain of her lost mother. Snow has hidden her pain from the court this time as well, and Regina wonders if her mindlessly spoken lessons of covering feelings away have actually done more damage than she could have ever foreseen. Had those been words of her own, she wouldn’t mind, but the feelings that settle within her when she knows that such lessons come from mother are nothing but sickly uncomfortable. For all of the hatred Snow has managed to awaken in her, spreading the harsh words that mother had so surely etched under her skin has never been a conscious or willing effort on her part.

Snow’s anguish has been lived behind closed doors, however, particularly behind the doors of Regina’s bedchambers, where she had taken residence once she had managed to tear herself away from her father’s dead figure. Invasive as ever, and clearly dismissing the shyness she had been showing towards Regina after she’d been so abruptly slapped under the shadow of the apple tree, she had settled in Regina’s abode as easily as ever, claiming the place Regina has never volunteered at her table and in her bed. Regina, choosing to use Snow’s grief as her own shield against court members wanting to shallowly and importantly comfort her, had allowed the princess to conquer spaces with the usual ease she always had, somehow preferring the sad princess over anyone else in the palace. If she is to be cooped up and not allowed a celebratory disposition, the least she deserves is to be witness to Snow White’s distress.

Thus, Regina knows that the princess has barely eaten for days now, and she’s certainly aware of her disturbing sleeping patterns. Snow’s sleep has been fitful, preventing Regina’s own even when she herself is brimming with such nervous energy that sleep eludes her as well. Nevertheless, when she’d been woken up just last night well before the small hours of the morning by incessant and whiny crying, she had pretended to be fast asleep, her back ramrod straight and turned away from Snow hugging her knees tightly to her and with her face hidden in her own arms. Regina had remained entirely too awake, however, steadfastly aware of the girl in her bed, fighting the urge to turn around and draw her into her arms for a warm and steady embrace. She had pictured her, though, dark and heavy gown exchanged for a light nightgown, fragile little figure wrecked by abrupt and sorrowful suffering, and she had bitten her lower lip raw to stop herself from providing comfort. It’s such a natural response for her now that it had been difficult to remain still, her body seemingly drinking Snow’s own tension, her hands white-knuckled as they’d held onto the edge of the soft bedspread. She has given relieving support to Snow’s pain for too long years now, has born the pain of her lost mother, of her heart broken for the first time, of an ill-timed sickness that had nearly claimed the princess’ life, but in this she cannot possibly bring herself to cater to Snow’s needs; not when she grieves over King Leopold, kind to all but to his wife, forever etched in Regina’s nightmares as lord of her pain and powerlessness. In this pain, Snow must dwell alone.

 Regina finishes her food in record time, and she even considers helping herself to a second serving before she realizes that her stomach is full, and that she will end up going overboard if she allows herself to indulge. She puckers her lips right after licking all flavors away from them, and then allows herself to rest tiredly against the back of her chair, legs sprawled forward carelessly as she finishes her cider in two long and hearty swallows. Mother would be appalled, and perhaps the noblemen that have known her as nothing but stupendously lady-like in her manners would too, but Snow doesn’t even register her demeanor. The princess is busy looking outside instead, the high sun of the afternoon shining on her pale cheeks in a way that doesn’t match her dour expression. She’s obviously distracted, but whatever is on her mind has her pressing her uneaten orange between her fingers, the juice dripping watery and clear over the ruffle-like fabric covering her wrist. The scent of the fruit is strong and tangy, and Regina both loves it and hates it for the memories it brings to the forefront of her mind.

Moving swiftly and suddenly, limbs heavy after her meal, Regina reaches forward until she can pluck the fruit away from Snow’s nimble fingers, her nails scratching unintentionally at the girl’s palm. She mumbles, “Honestly, dear,” and her tone is sharp and unforgiving, berating as if she were scolding a child over an unnecessary tantrum.

Snow gazes up at her, her eyes unreadable but her expression tight, the bags under her eyes making her look old and haggard. Regina ignores her in favor of a fleeting sense of deeply rooted nostalgia brought forward when the orange, now resting on her own palm, leaves its sticky juice against her skin. She drops the fruit on her plate, but the scent is strong and unstoppable, and Regina’s traitorous mind plays cruel games with her by unwittingly reminding her of Daniel, kind hand offering her the treat of a luxurious fruit after she’d passed out and woken up hazy and surprised between his solid arms. She closes her eyes, a tear teasing at the corner as her heart beats strong and hard for a love lost but not forgotten, for the beautiful soul of a boy that Regina had loved without restraint.

“Oh, Regina, I’m sorry,” Snow murmurs next to her, reaching out and touching both her hands to Regina’s and grasping at her, holding on. They’re both sticky now, and the feeling disgusts her. If the feeling shows in her expression when she opens her eyes up again, it must only help tell a tale that Snow has written for her in her own mind, for what she says next is, “Sometimes I forget that you too have lost father.”

Regina scoffs, dismissive, doing every effort to stop the tear pulling at the corner of her eye. She has lied steadily and without repentance, has been ruthless in making herself be whatever she has needed to be to gain advantage, but the thought that her grief over Daniel may be exchanged for grief over Leopold makes her sick to her stomach. Suddenly, she regrets eating so heartily, warm food that she had been grateful for now making her feel queasy and leaving a foul taste in her mouth. With an abrupt and vigorous tug, she rids herself from Snow’s touch and stands up, turning her back to the girl and fisting both hands in front of her, fury climbing low from her gut and all the way up to her throat, digging itself a place there with claw-like invisible fingers.

“I’m sorry,” Snow repeats behind her, weaker this time. The girl has been apologizing almost constantly these past few days, especially over what she’d said to prompt Regina to slap her so harshly a few weeks back, and Regina wants to hit her again just to make her stop. It seems to her that Snow is apologizing for all the wrong things, and that she will soon regain the self-righteousness with which she rules herself and the world around her in no time, thus forgetting whatever regret she may have ever had over her treatment of Regina.

Regina feels tired now, though, weary and irritated that her days so far have been filled with celebrating the memory of a man she’d so despised and who had slighted her so. She has wanted to laugh with childish glee from the moment she had stood over his dead body, shrunken and pale-looking after the vipers’ poison had done its job, the sight of his corpse as disgusting to her as that of his living body had been. She’d backhanded his flabby flesh when she had been left alone with him, a reverse mockery of the one time he had laid a beating hand on her, right after she’d lost her baby and her last shred of hope. She’d smiled at the deadly coldness of his skin. She hasn’t been allowed celebration or proper rest since then, though, not with Snow’s fretting sleep invading her bed and her own anxiety palpable under her skin, and she finds herself suddenly drained of energy to keep up the farce. It’s the last leg of her efforts, though, just a little more to go after ten years of a life in a golden prison, and she can’t give up now, even if that means sharing her tiredness with her ever-maddening charge.

Regina rolls her shoulders back, trying to expand her muscles and bring something like energy back into her body before she begins moving towards the heavy drapes opening up the room to the clear sun that suddenly feels like an intruder in the room. She disengages the weighty fabric holding the drapes from her balcony together, and with swift movements, closes them so they block the light filtering inside. Snow must sense what it is she wishes to do, for she suddenly stands up and busies herself with the second set of drapes, making quick work of shrouding the room in darkness. Unstoppable shiny rays don’t allow for complete blackness, but the drapes do a good enough job that the bedchambers suddenly feel intimately lit in dark greys, their figures clad in black suddenly appearing like the shadows of mourning ghosts.

Regina clears her throat, as if she physically needs to remind herself that she’s human and tangible and not a waning spirit, and says, “Some rest will do us good.” The comment is inconsequential, an explanation they don’t need, but it prompts them into movement yet again.

Regina helps Snow out of her dress with hands used to the complicated lacing of corsets, and the princess breathes out with what must be relief the moment her torso is freed of the tightness of her garment. The dress drops to the floor but stays standing on its own, the puffy skirt enough to hold the fabric up as if it were filled by an invisible body. It makes for an eerie image, and Regina kicks at it herself until there’s unlimited pounds of lifeless cloth on her floor. Snow returns the favor, and soon enough, they’re both clad in thin spring night clothes, cream-like in color and nearly transparent. Regina has always found the sight of her own brownish nipples obscene in this type of garment, and she’s quick to let her hair flow free and low, so as to cover herself up before she climbs on the bed, Snow hurriedly following her under the covers.

Regina sits up against the headboard rather than lean down, and Snow claims a spot on her lap once she finds her settled. The princess drops her head heavily on Regina, and then circles her arms loosely around her waist, the embrace prompting Regina to weave her fingers through Snow’s own loose hair inadvertently. The familiarity in their movement teases shadows of a past long gone at the edge of Regina’s mind, a time when Snow had been a child and Regina barely a young girl herself, when there had been true affection hidden in her touches. Today, every time her hand moves close to Snow’s neck, so thin, so elegant, so very easy to snap in two, Regina wonders if there was ever any truth to the tenderness she has bestowed upon this child. Her hands tremble over her skin and hair now, unreleased energy and hunger for destruction in every small quiver. Still, Regina fights her own nature and urges herself to let go of her tension and try and find some rest; she still has to get through long hours of mourning with noblemen she feels nothing but contempt for, after all, and she will certainly need to be rested if she’s to control herself.

“Regina, tell me a story,” Snow says all of a sudden, her words demanding rather than requesting. “One of those your father always tells… Please.”

The smallness of the last _please_ saves Regina from bristling and completely turning away from Snow’s urgent order, the tone of the princess so suddenly broken and defeated that Regina chooses to let her get away with her petition this once. Snow has a future where her whims will no longer be answered unquestioningly, after all, and Regina is so tired herself that she’s willing to allow this rest for them both now. Acquiescing to Snow’s desire, she begins telling one of daddy’s old folk tales, unwittingly choosing the first one that comes to mind, and swiftly ignoring why it is precisely this one the first to occur to her.

Leaning completely back against the headboard, and scooching down just a little on the bed until she’s comfortable enough, her hand in constant movement in a soft caress against Snow’s skull, she begins speaking, tone low and wistful, her words tracing knowledge of the past, of a heritage that she has been cheated out of, but shreds of which she has greedily collected for herself.

“Once upon a time there was a young woman; they say she was beautiful, but aren’t they always? It seems that tragedy never strikes the ugly, dear; you should be more careful than plainer girls, I suppose–”

“You even more so, Regina.”

Regina bites her lower lip, unwittingly tightens her fingers around thick locks of dark hair, fights the urge to _pull._ “Hush now, no interruptions or you will have no story.” Snow remains quiet at that, and Regina, already settled in the mood to finish her tale, keeps speaking in whispered tones. “The woman fell in love with a brave soldier, and from that love a daughter was born. Whether the child was beautiful or not, no one ever says, but the soldier abandoned them both nonetheless. The woman, left alone and forgotten, an unwanted child suckling at her bosom and crying day and night, was driven mad by the child’s wailing, and so she killed the babe with her own two hands.”

Snow gasps when Regina speaks those words, clearly awake when Regina is trying to get her to fall asleep, clinging tighter to her the longer Regina’s story talks of nothing but pain. Regina shushes her, cooing at her until her arms are loose again around Regina’s waist, her limbs softer and her shoulders as lax as they are probably going to get. Snow’s resting her face on Regina’s lap still, her cheek now firmly pressed low against Regina’s belly, where an old void rests filled with anger and vengeance, with fury that will only know rest once Regina has laid waste enough to bring peace to a mind clouded by resilient agony, and Regina wonders at her own choices, at telling a story of lost children and murdering mothers when her unwanted step-daughter is resting on the place that couldn’t breathe life into Regina’s lost baby. Leopold had accused her of killing his child, and if that hadn’t been true then, it will surely be when the time comes to rid herself of the princess between her arms. Something tight pulls at Regina’s chest at the thought, dark longing and uncomfortable regret as potently vibrant as the sudden itch blossoming where her fading scar still rests, and where Regina can’t reach it if she doesn’t wish to bother Snow.

Regina shakes thoughts away from her head, and instead focuses back on her story, on the mindlessness derived from telling a tale heard so many times. She closes her eyes, drawing further into herself and doing her best at ignoring her company, even when plainly cumbersome over her frame.

“Now, it was only after the child was gone that the woman realized what her traitorous hands had done, and so she cried and screamed her misery away. So loud and so inconsolable was she in her grief that everyone in her village came to find her, and when they understood what had happened, they immediately condemned the frightened woman, cursing her to forever be a wailing spirit. And so it is said that she wanders eternally, crying and calling for her lost daughter, stealing away lonely and forgotten children, forever damned to search for a child that she will not find.” **(2)**

Her voice seemingly lingers in the otherwise silent room, the last of her words falling around them with the intensity of a casted spell. The tale is an old one that father told often at Regina’s request when she was a child, never questioning her favoring such a woeful tale of pain; perhaps Regina had foreseen her twisted future, or perhaps she had simply been enchanted by the thought of sins persecuting one even after being claimed by death. Whatever reasons she may have had in the past, the story rings eerily true today, and it leaves a sour aftertaste in her mouth, betraying the otherwise calming motion she’s still bestowing upon a seemingly asleep Snow.

Hiding away from her present, Regina thinks of her past, and realizes how odd it is for her to spin this particular tale in the common tongue, when father had always told it in his native language. Mother had hated him for it, stern disapproval in her eyes when she’d watched him share old stories with his daughter. Regina remembers telling mother this particular one once, her seven year old self naïve enough to think that mother was merely curious, especially when she’d listened with such apparent delight to her daughter’s words. Regina had been condemned to a night in the cellar after translating the story for mother, and while she had never truly understood the reason behind mother’s outburst, now she remembers clear signs of distress in mother’s demeanor – a displeased tightness to her lips, her hand resting open palmed against her lower abdomen, her eyes haunted with something that Regina can recognize only now. She wonders about mother’s past, about lost children and eternal grieving, and thinks that mother may have kept more secrets than any of them could have ever guessed at.

Her eyes still closed but sleep far away and out of her reach, Regina ponders if mother is still somewhere, alive and kicking, eyes hard and hands splayed over her own body, feeling misery over a daughter that cast her away. The thought pains Regina even when she wishes it didn’t, remorse that mother doesn’t deserve forever settled inside the deep recesses of her heart. And she wonders, fleetingly, if she has done right by her, if mother would find it in her to be proud of the daughter that has filled a vault with beating hearts, that has plotted the murder of her husband, that even while her step-daughter rests in her arms finds herself wishing for her prompt and painful death.

Regina’s thoughts are interrupted by Snow’s words, so sudden that they almost make her gasp in surprise. She had thought her asleep, and while her voice reaches Regina in the shape of a tired slur, the girl still has energy enough for one last whiny comment.

“What a sad story,” she says.

Sighing, hands nimble in their movement and eyes firmly closed, Regina replies, “It is time for sad stories, Snow. I will tell another, if you promise to sleep,” she says, and the aching tenderness in her voice leaves her bewildered, startled at her own vulnerability. There is no place for it in her mind, her heart or her future, and she will do away with it as soon as her own body and Snow’s requests allow her proper rest.

 

* * *

 

Two days before the wake is to be held, Regina gets her monthly bleeding. It’s one of the bad ones, with cramps that assault her with every step she takes, pain sharp low on her back, breasts agonizingly heavy and her body so bloated that she refuses to even stare at herself in the mirror. She bleeds dark and thick blood, sticky and so disgusting that she would be sick at the thought if only she wasn’t impossibly hungry as well, savagely craving strong food to settle her heightened senses. Snow bleeds with her, and that gives her enough of an excuse to send the girl to her own bedchambers for a while to soak up in warm water, much like she plans to do herself. Alone in her chambers for the first time in days, Regina recalls how she had bled a few days before marrying Leopold, and figures that it is only natural that she should bleed a few days after his death as well, her body weeping for the time spent tied down to such a man.

The trickle is gone the day of the wake, for which Regina is thankful. If she’s to deal with the court today, after all, she would rather her body not betray her with random bouts of pain. She helps dress Snow is her preferred choice of heavy black gown, and even fusses about her and shoos Johanna away so she can comb her hair herself and plait it back in a comfortable and demure low braid that brings back some of the youth the dark fabrics are stealing away from the princess’ face. Nonetheless, Snow looks haggard and clumsy, almost slatternly, and it exasperates Regina when each of her movements seems to last an eternity.

Regina herself is wearing black as well, but her own choice is hardly appropriate for the mourning of death, the fabric around her soft velvet, the cut of her dress low enough that her breasts are almost impossible to ignore, and sparkling crystals adorning the end of her wide sleeves and the tip of her high collar as well as her cleavage. Her own hair is combed tight and high, coiled in a big bun that leaves her neck displayed tantalizingly, and she knows that such an outfit will be spoken about once the court considers it correct to talk of anything other than the king’s death. Regina should mind, and should perhaps change her attire, but she finds herself carelessly detached from whatever rumors may surround her persona; she has played many a role before, but today she deserves to feel like herself, and all she wants is a dress that’s beautiful and comfortable, and that makes her look like a queen.

“Now come on, dear, we must go.”

They’re both standing by the mirror, images so discordant that they shouldn’t be attending the same event, Snow looking like the bride of death herself, and Regina outfitted for a celebratory occasion. If Regina has felt old before when standing next to Snow, this morning she feels ages younger, Snow’s long lashes hiding patches of darkness like bruises, and the edges of her eyelids red, as if she has been weeping for days now. Which Regina knows she has, of course, her sleep restless and interrupted even with Regina’s soothing hand on her hair.

As they walk down the hallways and towards the throne room, where Leopold rests and the court awaits them, Snow clings to her for support, their arms linked together as if in mutual assistance. Regina has walked this path many a time and usually with an eager Snow guiding her step, small hand tugging from Regina and taking her towards a destiny forced upon her, but today they walk side by the side, the princess wobbly and her steps slow, as if delaying the inevitable. Regina has to stop herself from breaking into a run and yanking Snow behind her – the king has been dead for days, after all, and the dawdling is only managing to irritate her.

Once they reach the room, they remain by the doors so they can receive the members of the court with the proper pomp and circumstance, and Regina schools her face in the appropriately grim expression that the occasion requires, something almost broken in her smile, as if she’s barely holding in the pain. If everything about her is rooted in falseness, Snow’s anguish is as real as Regina has ever seen it, her shoulders sagging and her head hanging low, pale hands suddenly looking frail as she holds onto a white handkerchief that is already wet with tears. She looks faint, and so Regina commands one of her guards to keep a close eye on her, lest the princess collapse and cause an scandal.

Regina knows the state has been teeming with hundreds of villagers, all of them holding their own silent memorial outside, quiet perhaps out of respect, or perhaps because Regina has prohibited the distribution of ale and beer for the day, and they’re simply anxiously waiting for the night to come, but it seems that every nobleman in the country has arrived at the palace as well, making for the biggest crowd Regina has ever seen before. Consequently, Regina gets swamped in the people arriving to the wake and the words that they have to offer her, most of them simple condolences, but others hiding the thrill of approval and the promise of the future as queen that she so deserves.

“It will be an honor to be in your service, Your Majesty,” the Military Advisor tells her a second after feigning true sadness at the king’s passing. Regina offers him a small smile, but pats his arm in a sign of secret camaraderie and assures him that they will speak shortly of matters of state.

The hours drag slowly by, Regina’s responses growing more aloof and impersonal by the second, so that the moment she’s finally free to kneel before King Leopold’s casket, she finds herself sighing with relief. Snow kneels by her, cold and trembling hand resting between Regina’s, and cheek easily falling against her shoulder. Regina allows the touch, and as the court silences around them and surrounds them in ghostly quiet, Regina fancies that she can hear her own breathing as it slows down and becomes deep, unwittingly matching Snow’s as if they were somehow falling together into the most profound of dreams. It seems to her that from the moment Snow walked into her life, briskly and with purpose, breaking that which she couldn’t understand, they have drawn every breath in a kind of mingled delirium of love and hate, as if they have been part of each other’s bodies, Regina sagging down under suffering while Snow thrived in contentment. It is only fair, then, that their roles be interchanged, and that the breaths they take today bring nothing but agony to Snow, and serenity to Regina.

The air fills up to the brim with eerie calm, the lack of noise somewhat refreshing in what is usually such a busy palace, but the lull cast with the morbidity of death. It lasts long hours, the signs of restlessness obvious in the sound of rustling fabrics, of covered up coughs, of sighs of boredom that keep growing more impatient as the light begins to wane outside, announcing the ending of the day. The court had quickly agreed on postponing supper for the day, but the tiring wake brims with anxiety the more the sun sets, people eager to break their fast and move their limbs. Regina is numb herself, has been for hours now, her body motionless but her mind wandering to greener fields, dreaming of celebrating the way she should be allowed to – she envisions a long ride atop _Rocinante’s_ still strong body, a hearty meal with father, the sensual touch of a wanted lover, laughter, and freedom.

Regina’s daydream, as well as the peaceful silence, is broken in one single and sudden moment, noise invading the mourning room as an unknown intruder trudges inside it, steps heavy on the marble floors and voice raised high and mighty on a savage wail. Regina stands and turns entirely too fast, her head feeling dizzy for a stabbing second, and her eyes widening when she catches sight of a burly man running through the path opened at the center of the room, the same path she had walked with Snow hours before to pay her respects to the deceased king. If their pace had been slow and respectful, this man’s is anything but, his boot-clad feet cumbersome yet quick, the heavy thump of them loud in a room now laden with surprised gasps.

The man is big, shoulders wide and arms strong, and Regina barely has time to register anything else before he’s throwing himself at them unstoppably, his intent clear and his aim sharp. Regina squeals, still foggy from a full day of immobility and feeling ambushed, her gut reaction making her push Snow out of the way before the man can reach them. The princess is far from the man’s mind, though, for it is Regina that he launches himself at, a shouted cry of _witch!_ leaving his rabid lips before Regina catches sight of a glint of shiny steel. The dagger is sharp and precise, the man’s arm obviously well-trained, and the first swift movement catches Regina’s neck, a smooth if shallow cut that stings acutely and makes her grunt with the effort of pushing herself back. She falls back, her heels catching on the edge of her skirt and traitorously throwing her to the floor in a tumble of limbs and fabric, her right side and elbow crashing painfully against the hard surface. She hears the collective gasp that surrounds her when the man launches himself at her for a second attack, but she barely registers it, her own head unexpectedly free of noise, surprised yet calm when her thoughts remain steady and her instincts take over so that her hand reaches out, magic bursting forth from her outstretched palm and hitting the man square on the chest, effectively throwing him backwards onto the floor, the back of his head crashing disruptingly loud and the man groaning at the pain.

The man is taken enough by surprise and hurt enough that it gives Regina time to recover and stand up, pain that will shape bruises into her flesh easily ignored, and warmth from the blood flowing from her neck strangely soothing. Her breathing is loud and ragged, viciously angry so that when her attacker stands up himself, she easily lifts her hand before her yet again, ready to defend herself with everything she has.

“A witch!” The man screams then, pointing at her with a hand that’s still holding his knife, the liquid red of Regina’s blood shiny on the metal. “A witch, I tell you!”

Regina growls at the accusation, as true as anything can be but misused in its terrifying meaning. Even as she wishes to defend herself of the judgmental look this simpleton is fixing her with, she can’t help herself from calling magic forth back into her hand, a purple haze surrounding her tight fist as she gets ready to stop any further attacks. The obvious threat of her stance doesn’t deter the man, and his frame opens up and becomes impossibly bigger when he throws himself back at her, a prowling tiger if Regina has ever seen one implied in every move. He doesn’t get very far, however, Regina being spared of further exposing her magic when the sharp blade of a sword abruptly appears between his ribs, a gurgling sound of pain replacing the wild shouts the man had proffered so far. The blade leaves his body as quickly as it had entered it, and the now dead body falls dejectedly to the floor, massive weight collapsing with a morbid thud that once again leaves the court silenced. Behind the man’s prone corpse, one of Regina’s Black Knights nods at her, as if acknowledging the end of the threat.

Regina’s breathing is labored and harsh, the way it gets when she stretches her riding hours for too long into the cold night, making her throat complain over the rough treatment. Her heart, beating wildly, feels as if it wants to escape her altogether, break away from her chest and fall somewhere where rest may just be possible. Her hands are shaking as well even as her fighting stance remains, her limbs locked down and failing to move, tension ricocheting up and down her arms and all the way to the back of her neck, refusing to let her rest even now when the man is positively dead.

And then, a whistling noise cuts the air. It seems to Regina that she’s the only one who hears it, something fast and light coming towards her with the fury reserved for beasts, small yet deadly, and she moves, unaware of her own actions until her hand wraps swiftly around the wooden shaft of an arrow, the poisoned tip of the head a breath’s away from the skin of her neck. She blinks slowly, astounded at her own agility, magic obvious in the air around her, the taste of cinnamon heavy at the back of her tongue. There is a commotion somewhere in the room, boisterous and distracting enough that Regina lowers the arrow still firmly clasped in her strong grip and finally manages to disengage her body from its alert state, her limbs falling heavily about her when the shock begins to fade.

Regina looks about her until she discovers the origin of the tumultuous upheaval, and catches sight of two of her knights reducing a man carrying bow and arrow, obviously responsible for the offensive weapon in her hand. A knock to the head has the man lolling foolishly and falling in between her men’s arms, who drag him before her even as he mumbles incoherently and puts up a weak effort to free himself. They drop him so he kneels before her and right next to his dead companion, whom he looks upon with pain twisting his features. He’s a handsome man, Regina surmises, surprised, but the sneer that he throws at her once he finally glances her way distorts his lovely if rugged features until he looks uncomely. There’s blood coming from the back of his neck and slowly pooling on the rough fabric covering his collarbones, and a shadow of a bruise has already began to form around his left eye. He looks as battered as Regina feels, and his expression suggests as much fury as Regina is sure will consume her as soon as the impact dissapears.

“What is the meaning of this?” she demands, her voice booming and disquieting, breaking the standstill that has taken over the room and its guests. She remains stoic, her tone colder and more controlled than she expected it to be, but she spies flinches and grimaces surfacing in the awakening senses of court members around her.

The second attacker doesn’t leave any breathing space for the obviously altered noblemen, and is quick to accuse her much in the same way his companion had done moments before. “A witch, you’re a witch! You all saw, you saw her! She’s a witch and she’ll kill us all the way she killed the good king! She should burn!” he screams, boisterous and disruptive, his voice hoarse as his speech continues in much the same manner. “Burn the witch!”

Regina watches the man fidget against the hold the two knights are keeping him in, his nose flaring from the effort and the ire cursing through his veins. He’s still spitting his venom, and Regina spies the commotion and doubt he’s creating as he speaks, louder with each word. He’s hardly speaking lies, though, but Regina knows that she could easily convince the noblemen of the falseness of the man’s sermon. She has spun lies before, has convinced this court so they see in her whatever it is that she needs them to see, and she knows that a few chosen words about the confusion and alarm present during the attack would convince them that they haven’t seen her throw a man across a room with an invisible and powerful touch. She could, and yet she won’t.

She casts a look around herself, sees Snow huddled in a corner behind her, a pale and surprised expression in a face that looks younger than it has in days, loss and confusion written in every line of her features. Then, she considers the people closest to her, discovers bewilderment and fear. Baroness Irene, who had been adamant hours before that she was to remain close to Regina and had claimed a seat at the front, now looks as pale as Regina has ever seen her, her puffy cheeks devoid of color and her lively eyes crowned with agitation. Regina smirks at the sight, thinks of how she has been scrutinized and judged by these people for years, of how she has been unwittingly caged by their looks and their words, punished by their harsh appraisal. She has been pliant daughter, mysterious seductress, mistreated queen, young and fearful girl, loving granddaughter for them all, and tonight, as she discovers unlimited fear in their gaze, she relishes the feeling of showing them her true self.

Taking a step forward, she extends her hand, palm up so the arrow that had meant to kill her rests still, and shows it to her audience with triumph touching her eyes. Gleeful, then, she makes it disappear in a cloud of purple smoke, leaving her hand free to curl into a fist when a collective sigh of awe follows her little trick. Throwing her shoulders back, she breathes in slowly, closing her eyes for a too long beat and feeling something pleasant crawl up her arms, the touch of liberated magic caressing her as a lover would. When she opens them again, she fixes them on her attacker, quiet now that he has seen her powers firsthand, his mouth hanging open even as his nose still flares with contained fury.

“Call me what you will, peasant,” she says, tall and proud as she stands close to him, forcing him to stretch his neck up if he wants to look at her. “You will however remember who I am – your queen,” she quips as if she were speaking to a particularly slow toddler. She pouts, the playful puckering of her lips grotesque as she harshly states, “And I will _not_ be trifled with.”

This makes the man react, his bravado leaving him in a strangled cry of, “Please, my queen, merc–”

Regina doesn’t let him finish, however, instead directing her speech to her Black Knights this time. “Take him to the dungeons; he will be executed in the morning.”

That said, Regina doesn’t wait and see what reaction her statement provokes, and simply stalks her way out of the room, stepping over the dead body of her first attacker with brisk determination. The click-clack of her inappropriately high heels feels deafening to her ears, satisfying even once she’s out of the hall and is walking the path back to her bedchambers, completely unaware of both her surroundings and herself. Her trudging walk affords her respite, the restlessness that has been consuming her for days somehow receding as her energies filter to her legs and her resolute strut. On her way, the few servants parading around the palace make haste to step away from her, surprised and mildly frightened when they see her coming. She knows she has gathered a reputation for being ill-tempered and impulsive with the household, so perhaps it’s for the better than they choose to make themselves scarce.

Regina has almost reached her destination when she finds herself stopped, Snow’s voice pleading with her with a resounding call of, “Regina!”

Regina doesn’t want to stop and yet she does, as if her body is designed to comply with Snow’s whims and desires after so long a time spent together. She turns around sharply, her movements hasty and jerk-like, betraying the tension settled firmly over her shoulders.

“What?” she barks, mindless of what Snow may think of her in this particular instant. She has always been good at keeping herself together, or at least at hiding herself away when she couldn’t stop herself from losing control, but tonight she feels as if she could commit all kinds of atrocious acts if she isn’t allowed rest and reprieve. She has been attacked and diminished, after all, and asking for a little time alone doesn’t seem like an unreasonable request.

“Regina, that man, we should–”

“Spare him?” Regina interrupts, easily and correctly guessing at the princess’ thoughts. “Have mercy on him after he interrupted his king’s wake to kill his queen? No, Snow, there will be no benevolence for traitors.”

Snow says nothing, her eyes huge and surprised, if at Regina’s abruptness or simply at her words Regina doesn’t know. The princess is obviously still agitated from the attack, perhaps even as much as Regina herself, and while a healthy rosy color has returned to her cheeks, she looks completely dumbfounded, thrown aback by the suddenness of it all and by Regina’s demeanor.

“Surely, we–”

This time, it is Snow who stops whatever words she may have wanted to say, her tongue tangling inside her mouth when Regina takes a step forward and into the princess’ personal space, so that they’re easily staring at each other. Regina’s heels give her a height advantage, but she soon realizes that Snow’s eyes aren’t trained on her face but on her hands, now firmly clenched around the soft fabric of her skirt, as if she’s physically stopping herself from lashing out. Snow looks discomfited like this, fearful and wary. She reaches out a hand towards Regina’s, but her intention dies midway and her fingers instead are left hovering in the air between them. Never before have Snow’s hands looked incapable or frail, but now, trembling softly and failing to reach their destination, Regina spies unbearable weakness in them. When Snow finally looks up and into her eyes, there are unshed tears pooled in the red edges of her gaze, fragile, vulnerable and betraying apprehension.

Regina smirks at the sight, disengaging one of her hands from the fabric of her dress and reaching up to press her knuckles to Snow’s cheek, a familiar caress that they have shared with ease and tenderness before. This time, Snow flinches, and Regina can do nothing but grin wider at the obvious fear her magic has instilled in her. _Good,_ she thinks, _let her be afraid._

And despite everything, locked together with unwavering gazes, close and in each other’s space and with Regina’s hand resting softly against the skin of Snow’s cheek, intimacy remains between them. They are so impossibly tangled together, fate, simple coincidence and mother’s schemes having bound them to forever stand together in this game that Snow only now seems to realize that they’re playing. Unwittingly, Regina is challenging Snow to finally _see,_ to see her for what she truly is, not the soft spoken caretaker she has made herself to be, but the woman she has become, broken and put back together so many times that she is nothing but a deformed picture of the girl Snow helped kill, held together by anger and magic. Drawing a sharp breath, Snow steps back, abandoning Regina’s touch, and almost immediately shielding her eyes from Regina’s pointed glare.

Huffing, miffed and satisfied at the same time, Regina straightens her spine and does her best at shaking tension away from her fingers by returning her hands to her sides and letting them fall down, open and relaxed. Then, she says, “Now, dear, please go back and take care of the court; I need some time to myself.”

“Wait, you sh–”

“Goodness, Snow, for once in your life, do as you are told and leave me be.”

Regina trudges away then, once more ignoring her audience so that she can escape somewhere private. She reaches her bedchambers with strain pressing on her limbs, which somehow manage to be stupendously exhausted and inordinately energetic at the same time, as if her body doesn’t know if it wants to collapse in a boneless heap or run long miles. As a result, Regina can do nothing more than pace, stalk her chambers from side to side as a caged beast, too anxious to be trapped inside four walls. The alternative is agonizing and doesn’t bear thinking about, of course, the idea of going back to a court that will expect her to explain herself entirely too disagreeable. She tries breathing in slowly, but the effort is futile, the room she has locked herself in making her feel stifled. The drapes are closed, and even when Regina knows it is dark outside, she motions so that the heavy fabric parts under the command of her magic, and the doors to her balcony open as well, letting a soft breeze waft inside, bringing the smell of vibrant chilliness with it. Noise filters inside, too, the ruckus of now drunk villagers reaching her chambers from afar, the attack on their queen apparently causing no disruptions to the celebration happening at the palace’s doors.

The breeze helps cool her down, and a second flick of her wrist lighting up every candle in the room settles her as well. Her pacing stops, and while she still finds herself brimming with nervous energy, she walks to her bed and sits at the edge, dropping her weight heavily on the comfortable mattress and leaning her hands on the cool fabric of the bedspread. As she does so, she catches sight of herself in her biggest mirror, and spies eyes like those of a wild animal in a snare, patiently awaiting the charge of a hunter’s hand. Her hair is a mess of unruly curls fighting the tight hold of her bun, and her lipstick has somehow managed to run, painting her cheek in fading shades of crimson. Nothing is more savage than the nearly forgotten wound at her neck, though, a small and shallow gash that has nonetheless poured blood down her collarbone and over the top of her left breast, staining the crystals at the edge of her corset’s cleavage. Regina touches her hand to her chest gingerly, and while the blood is already starting to dry, the tips of her fingers come out painted in liquid red, somehow making her more acutely aware of the cut than the pain of it. It barely stings, anyway.

Closing her tainted hand in a fist, Regina turns her eyes away from the savage-like picture that she makes, her own lack of control suddenly weighing heavily on her shoulders; even she would agree that she deserves to be thrown into a dark cellar after such an exhibition. The exhilaration of it still thrums wildly under her skin, but the consequences of it Regina can’t guess at. For all she knows, she will have a wild horde at her door in no time, demanding her head. Regardless of such an uncomfortable thought, Regina doesn’t find it in herself to care in this moment, not when she has finally tasted a morsel of freedom after so many years of hiding herself away. She’s so very tired, after all, her body, heart, spirit and very soul demanding rest for what feels like decades of hardship.

Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, trying to clear her head as much as possible, she drops her weight back until she’s resting on the mattress, her legs dangling off the bed but her head and shoulders comfortably nestled against the plush bed. She could just fall asleep like this, and she has a feeling that she would sleep for days, her whole body so exhausted that she may just escape her worst nightmares. She’s not comfortable, though, not in this bed that has been witness to King Leopold’s torment, not in this room that has been as much a prison cell as a hiding place. Unwittingly, she longs for a friend.

Her thoughts fly to father, fragile and small but kind father, whose touch never fails to be a balm for her tired senses. However, as affectionate as father is, and as unconditionally as her loves her, he doesn’t understand her, not her and certainly not her need for vengeance. Even as he’d helped her in her plot against the king, he doesn’t comprehend why she ever wanted him dead in the first place. Father certainly can’t wrap his head around Regina’s hateful gaze when she’d found him comforting a crying Snow not two days ago, doesn’t know why Regina had so desperately needed to rob the girl of the gentleness of his arms, relief that Regina demands belong just to herself. Father, who gives love so willingly but who looks at her with the same shade of fear he used to reserve only for mother, can’t possibly grant her comfort now.

And Regina _wants_ comfort. She wants comfort and approval, she wants to laugh because the king is dead and the kingdom is hers, she wants to rage at a population that dares defy her, at a court that judges her every breath and wishes her to be mild and accommodating, she wants to breathe and to scream and to be free, she wants–

Well, she knows what she wants, the thought suddenly so obvious that she snorts into the silent room. After all, if there was ever a place of freedom, and if she has ever known the comfort of a friend, it has been under the soft touch of cold and experienced hands and under the brooding look of impossibly blue eyes. Regina laughs at the thought, and then, before she can overthink and stop herself, she pictures a familiar room in her mind’s eye and allows the pull of magic to transport her to where she needs to be. She hopes, fleetingly, that Maleficent won’t set her ablaze on the spot.

 

* * *

 

Regina appears inside Maleficent’s fortress, and before she opens up her eyes, she hears thunder roar outside, the sound so loud that it reverberates inside her chest. She’s startled by it, the wild weather unexpected when she has seen nothing but sunny spring days for weeks now. Once she finally dares look around her, she realizes that the room hasn’t changed and that the memory she preserves is almost perfectly accurate, the decadent darkness and drafty quality of the place somehow managing to be enchanting, even when it should be unwelcome.

Regina turns towards the chimney where a lively fire sparkles brightly, calling to her, tantalizing warmth tempting even when she’s not feeling particularly cold. She inspects the old and comfortable couches around it, expecting to find Maleficent resting in one of them, wide sprawl careless and apathetic, long-fingered hands busy holding a goblet filled with some kind of strong liqueur, a temptation of a completely different nature. She’s not disappointed, the first sight she catches of her long lost friend making her breath catch with startling and unabashed emotion. It’s been too long, and when Maleficent turns her eyes towards her, head tilted curiously to the side and eyes searching, Regina finds her lips pulled into a small yet honest smile, something like relief crawling up from her stomach and into her chest, unfurling and settling there comfortably.

Maleficent, motioning at her with a hand that reads dismissiveness, says, “Be a darling and close that window, won’t you? It’s awfully drafty in here.” Then, she stops looking at Regina all-together and drives her eyes back towards the crackling fire.

Huffing, Regina crosses her arms over her chest as she stares at the other woman for a too long beat. When her glare proves to be ineffective, she groans, frustrated and aggravated but compliant nonetheless, and stomping her feet in a clear show of annoyed disapproval, she walks across the room and towards the single open window. So much for emotional reunions, she guesses, but then she doesn’t know why she ever expected anything different from the ever callous dragon witch. The big window has obviously been thrown open by the wind, and when Regina reaches it, a gust of coldness touches the skin of her face and chest pleasantly, even if the pattering rain filters inside along with it and touches her flesh as well in chilly droplets. The water has pooled at the foot of the window, so Regina steps on a puddle that wets the bottom of her dress just so she can push the big window closed, the hinges whining as if they were old crones. The moment she’s done, the chamber is left to rest in silence, the noise of water and wind wading its way inside one that Regina hadn’t even registered. Belatedly, she realizes that she’s feeling a little faint.

Pressing a hand to her stomach and closing her eyes, Regina finds herself leaning against the crystal of the window, her palm open wide against the cold material and her frame suddenly begging her for respite. A wave of dizziness touches her, wisps of haziness pulling at the tendrils of her mind as her belly assaults her with abrupt queasiness. Her hand curls claw-like on her stomach, as if trying to hold onto the too tight fabric of her corset, and her shoulders sag forward, her frame making her feel small all of a sudden. She turns on the spot, pushing her back and shoulders against the window to hold herself upright, and opens her eyes to see spots dancing before her, black and orange and yellow, as if the crackling fire were teasing her vision away from reality. Maleficent stands before her, tall and imposing yet slightly blurry, the flurry of her dress as she moves closer barely registering to Regina’s senses. She feels breathless, and her tongue feels heavy inside her mouth, almost dry when she tries to wet her lips with a purposeful lick.

Maleficent calls for her, and her voice feels far away but entirely too loud at the same time, raspy and wondrous and, Regina wants to believe, worried. Regina tries to smile, not particularly sure that it is the appropriate gesture or even the one she wants on her face, but she tries nonetheless. Then, she blinks, trying to clear her head and her vision, glad when Maleficent draws even closer and becomes all she can see, deeply blue eyes calling to her like a beacon, impossibly clear even through Regina’s fuzzy mind. Maleficent touches her then, hands firm at her waist, fingers tight and strong that Regina can feel even through her hard corset, tugging her upright and forcing her to be precipitously aware of her exhausted body, of the sting of a wound at her neck, of bumps that will surely become bruises all along the right side of her torso and her thigh, of a grumbling stomach neglected for the whole day now. Suddenly, fogginess lifts away from her gaze, and she’s staring into unreadable eyes and lips that are shaping her name yet again, sound rushing forwards until she can clearly distinguish the rain pattering against the window behind her, the fire crepitating pleasantly on the other side of the room, and Maleficent’s breathing, steady, slow and rhythmical, close to her face.

“Did you come here just to collapse? How rude, even for you,” Maleficent says suddenly, her voice low and firm, thrumming pleasantly against Regina’s ribcage.

Regina says nothing, wetting her lips yet again, unsure of what she wants to say. She feels that there is something pulling at her tongue, at the edges of her mind, something important that she hasn’t quite spoken out loud yet and that she came here to confess. Her mind cheats the thought away, though, and can only focus on Maleficent when she passes a strong arm around her waist, bringing her closer as well as supporting her weight easily, reminding Regina of her preternatural strength and how much she’s always loved it. Regina lifts her arms them, cumbersome and excruciatingly slow in their movement until she can curl her hands on Maleficent’s shoulders, where she meets both thin fabric and cold skin. She holds on with unwitting firmness, unconsciously needing the support that her fingers digging into smooth skin provides. Then, she looks at Maleficent as if she were seeing her for the first time, as if she had somehow forgotten about her sullen beauty and her predator-like eyes, about shapes that she has traced with nimble fingers and perhaps even loved with feverish desire.

She wants to tell her that she’s missed her, that there is no one else in the world she wishes to be with during this fiery instant, and yet the words die somewhere in her throat, as if she knows them inappropriate, as if she foresees them unwelcome. Confessions on desperate feelings that Regina has barely even allowed herself in the darkest recesses of her mind seem wrong between them, even after years of separation and a world of longing pressing harsh and unforgiving against Regina’s breastbone. Instead, Regina breathes in slowly, wills away the last remnants of her dizziness and the sickly feeling at the pit of her stomach, and parts her lips on a silent plea for her mind to spell out the thoughts that somehow seem to want to escape her.

The words her lips shape once she finally speaks surprise her to her very core, the statement far away from her conscious mind and at the same time so very obviously what she must confess that it unsettles her. “I killed the king,” is what she says, her tone managing to be wistful, full of wonder, as if she’s somehow amazed by the truth behind her declaration.

Maleficent turns inquiring eyes on her, stares straight into her gaze as if asking a wordless and yet undefined question.

Regina repeats, “I killed the king; I–I killed Leopold.” And his name tastes foreign on her tongue, a fearsome enemy turned into a soulless and unimportant nightmare of old, as if now that he’s gone his given name should never be spoken again.

With a curios tilt to her head, Maleficent’s eyes leave her own to focus on her neck instead, where the blood has stopped oozing but remains dried up, a dark red color now against Regina’s skin. Maleficent touches cool fingertips to Regina’s collarbone, and asks, “And he defended himself with a rusty, old knife?”

“No, that is not–They attacked me! Ungrateful peasants longing for some naïve little queen and–They called me a witch. They said I was a witch and that I should burn and I–I _did_ kill the king, not with my own two hands but–”

Regina stops at that, squeezes her hands around Maleficent’s shoulders as if she needs the reminder of her physicality, of the woman she’s confessing her sins to. She laughs, abrupt and disruptive, a short barked peal of laughter that sounds mad to her ears and that unintentionally and impetuously turns into a sob, something broken that makes her throat feel raw and constricted, terrifyingly vulnerable. She pushes back, tries to move away as the sob becomes only the first of many, tears pooling in her eyes and falling unwittingly, wetting tense cheeks and curling on the edges of her nose, travelling down until she can taste the salt against her lips. Maleficent doesn’t allow her the separation, but rather brings her closer to her body, pressing her forward with the arm she has around her waist until they’re flush against each other and Regina can press her face against her shoulder.

“There, there, my darling,” she shushes, what may come off as a motherly tone in someone else falling short coming from Maleficent, who always struggles when faced with honest bouts of emotions other than anger.

Regina drinks from the offered comfort, however rigid and inadequate, and allows her arms to climb up until she’s trapped well within Maleficent’s embrace, her cheek resting against the crook of her neck. She smells tangy and fresh, like smooth liqueur, and Regina holds onto her scent as if it can somehow bring her back from the suddenness of her outburst, from tears that she can’t quite understand. _Except_ . Except she _does_ understands, her grief suddenly clear as daylight, long buried pain coming up from the deep recesses of her mind, making itself acutely and pesteringly present inside her.

There have been no tears for Leopold, not from her, and how could she possibly have any? But she has been uncharacteristically calm, eerily accepting of Snow crowding her room and asking for comfort, draining her of her energies and claiming them for herself in her own dwelling. And yet Regina has been brimming with brisk energy as well, anxious nervousness beating under her skin and asking her for something, some form of action that Regina hasn’t allowed herself. Here it is now, sobbing of uncomely tears cried not for her husband, but for the girl she had once been, scared, small and young, pushed under an old and looming body and refusing to cry, letting the wounds of violation fester under hidden scabs, never quite scarring enough despite Regina’s best efforts. She has spent years surviving to the best of her abilities; being difficult and unaccommodating, making the king aware of his sins, causing discomfort wherever she could, protecting her aching soul with contempt and disdain, forcing herself to ignore the open bruises of an unwanted, possessive hand. And yet the damage remains, forever etched into her underserving skin, invisible lacerations that only now she can allow herself to grieve for. For the king is dead, and with his rotting corpse lies Regina’s imprisonment.

Regina cries even when she doesn’t want to, allows herself the momentary weakness in the awkwardness of Maleficent’s arms, so proficient when it comes to passionate love and so very obviously discomfited in the role of comforting confessor Regina has forced her into. It remains the most soothing remedy for Regina’s ails, the crisp scent of Maleficent’s skin and the feel of her body against hers, arms strong and breasts pushing against her own, hair ticklish where it’s touching Regina’s neck, hot puffs of breath warm against the shell of her ear, steady and permanent, holding her up when she feels as if her body wants to completely give up on her, alleviating that which can’t be cured.

Time ticks by meaninglessly, the timeless quality of Maleficent’s fortress and persona making Regina feel paralyzed in a slow-paced present where there is nothing quite as important as the feel of Maleficent’s skin under her cheek. By the time she moves back and finds the other woman’s eyes, she feels stuck in a hazy and balm-like sensation of rest, her no longer falling tears having drained her vitality away and making her wish for a bed to lie on, preferably with Maleficent by her side, were she to indulge her in such a way.

Maleficent lifts up a hand to touch her, her fingers whisper-like as she traces the contour of her cheek and the length of her lips, as if exploring forgotten features. Her gaze remains focused, sharp and solid so it’s almost tangible, and Regina can’t help but sway forward and press their lips together, hoping that she won’t be rebuked. Maleficent owes her nothing, after all, particularly after the way they parted, and it is presumptuous of her to ask for this, and yet she does. They’re almost too still then, just lips against lips, no tongue and hands resting motionless. Maleficent’s upper lip is curled against hers, soft and supple and humid, and the tip of her nose brushes her cheek, Maleficent’s slow, rhythmic breaths hitting her warmed up skin. It’s just Maleficent’s mouth, but Regina feels the kiss all the way down to her toes. Maleficent breaks away entirely too quickly, her lips drawing back with a soft sound and leaving Regina with an almost tangible feeling of absence.

Maleficent smirks at her, and the gesture welcomes her usual demeanor back, stealing away whatever awkwardness Regina may have provoked by unwittingly asking for tender comfort from her. “I leave you alone for a few years and you come back to me a blushing virgin?” she says, scoff present in her tone.

Regina laughs, this time with something that she could almost call joy, the sound dying and becoming an unintentional whimper when Maleficent shapes her lips around hers once again, devouring her mouth with relentless purpose, tongue finding its way easily into Regina’s mouth, parted lips giving way to breathy moans in between the small spaces left by passion. It’s familiar and foreign at the same time, the taste of a lover that Regina hasn’t known for too long but whose body once was as intimately well-known as her own, and she soaks in the feeling, trying to dispel the carefulness they’re treating each other with and the corrupt feeling she’d been assaulted with once she’d known herself in a safe place.

Maleficent breaks away from her as abruptly as she’d assaulted her senses, and then draws back from their embrace and walks towards her table, sitting by it somewhat heavily. It seems to Regina that her movements are uncharacteristically clumsy, but the thought is fleeting and quickly exchanged for the lure of Maleficent offering her a seat with what would look like remoteness to a stranger, but which Regina knows is as much of an invitation as she’s going to receive. Regina sits in front of Maleficent, giving up entirely on the dainty look of the lady she has never quite been and allowing herself to give into her weariness by dropping her weight gracelessly against the back of the comfortable chair. Maleficent seems content to stare at her then, and Regina stares back defiantly, breathing more easily now and greedily soaking up the long forgotten presence of the woman before her, who has been friend and lover both, and never quite either of them. There is a sullen expression marring features that remain the most breathtakingly beautiful Regina has ever seen, and Regina wishes for a moment that Maleficent would give into her own need for dramatics and explode into sudden tears, or perhaps anger and threats. Regina knows better, though, understands now that they will move forward without mentioning the past, Maleficent languidly ignoring whatever pain Regina may have caused in the past with a rejection that she has sometimes wished she hadn’t issued.

It seems that after their small emotional reunion, Maleficent isn’t willing to give anything further, however, and so she conjures up her forgotten goblet and takes a sip, making a show of being disinterested, vicious in her lack of acknowledgement of Regina now. Regina puckers her lips at the sudden stubbornness and with playful arrogance takes her chances by reaching forward and plucking Maleficent’s goblet away from her lax fingers. Maleficent raises an eyebrow, slightly entertained yet mildly irked, much like she usually is when it comes to Regina, but smiles anyway when Regina takes a small sip of whatever drink the cup may hold. It’s a light lemon liqueur and it tastes fresh and tangy, pleasantly awakening Regina’s dormant buds. She licks her lips with delight, and when Maleficent reaches back for the goblet, Regina lifts it away, provoking the woman to lean closer to her until her woodsy scent is invading Regina’s senses and her breath mingles with Regina’s own, their mouths resting at a distance that begs to be closed. In this, Maleficent doesn’t provide, letting herself fall back into her seat instead. She looks tired, Regina realizes, the quality of her movement not her usual languid slowness but rather something almost ungainly.

Regina frowns at that, but knowing better than to point out any possible sign of weakness in Maleficent, she murmurs, whisper soft, “Mal…”

And then Maleficent moves, all signs of fragility gone in a second as she finds Regina’s space again, crowds into it with the kind of magical agile swiftness that never fails to leave Regina feeling dizzy. The jarring quality of the motion catches her by surprise, and she yelps when she realizes Maleficent’s hand is buried inside her hair, the tight coil of her bun failing to keep her curls properly settled on her head when Maleficent pulls. Regina’s neck stretches at Maleficent’s insistent and purposeful tug, and it is only when a pained _ah_ leaves her parted lips that Regina remembers the cut and the dried up blood still staining her cleavage. Maleficent pulls once more as if to make a point, and Regina shoots her hand out and wraps it tightly around her wrist, glare shaping her eyes into a half lidded stare.

With slow purposefulness, as if she wishes for Regina to predict her movements when just seconds before she’d been more than happy with unforeseen abruptness, Maleficent reaches up with soft treading fingers and touches at the contours of what must be an ugly gash by now. She prods carefully at the abused skin, and when Regina hisses at the contact, she lifts a questioning eyebrow.

“I told you, some peasants tried to kill me,” Regina spits, scowl marring her features. She’d almost managed to forget about the assault in the face of Maleficent’s presence and her own breakdown, but the fury is still brimming true and hot inside her chest.

She searches for Maleficent’s eyes when there’s no answer to her words, and she finds them suddenly soft, deflated from viciousness and steadily alluring. Regina wants to hide away from them with as much fierceness as she wants to drown in them, to find in them the comfort that she has come searching for. Maleficent’s gaze is careful but not pitying, and Regina sinks into the quietly offered warmth, feeling more settled than she has in days, as if she’s finally come home. The thought is horrifyingly captivating, and Regina remembers exactly why she has spent the past few years shying away from the temptation of Maleficent.

Unaware of whatever conflicting thoughts may be going through Regina’s mind, Maleficent produces a white cloth that she carelessly dips into her goblet, so it comes out damp with tangy smelling liqueur. Regina spies her intentions but doesn’t stop her, instead allowing herself to be cleaned up with liqueur that stings sharply when it touches the edges of her wound, and that leaves a strong lemony scent of her skin. Maleficent is careful with her touches, tender in that way that Regina has always craved from her, but stupendously arousing nonetheless. Regina realizes she’s breathing jaggedly only once Maleficent is done with her neck and is trailing the wet cloth down her collarbones and to her chest, cleaning up the caked blood with ease. Regina bites her lip, liquid heat unfurling in her belly and breathlessness gripping her chest.

Regina studies Maleficent as she takes entirely too long cleaning around her wound, sees her clad in a light blue nightgown so old that the fabric is worn thin and enticingly translucent. Half closing her eyes, Regina can guess at Maleficent’s body under it, her breasts round and heaving, her nipples dark, a patch of curls between legs so long that Regina suddenly can’t wait to have them wrapped around her, consuming her with instinctual and basic need. Maleficent looks bone-weary, though, the slow like molasses rhythm of her touch somehow missing the determined control Regina had gotten so used to in the past. She wonders at that, thinking that Maleficent’s gaze is uncharacteristically unsteady and almost murky, as if she’s conscious enough but dizzy nonetheless. Regina thinks that if she were to look at Maleficent’s fingers, she would find the telling pricks of her drugged up needle. She’s about to ask about whatever may have Maleficent in such a state, but she realizes that she can hardly think straight when Maleficent gets rid of the liqueur-soaked cloth and lets the tips of her fingers rest on the swell of her breast, too soft to ignite her further but tempting enough that Regina can only think _more._ She has bedded a fair amount of people in her years away from Maleficent, but she has forgotten what it feels like to want someone with the intensity that has heat pounding between her legs when they’re barely touching at all. She feels suddenly too hot, and knows that if she were to touch her hands to her cheeks, she would find herself flushed.

Maleficent smiles at her, moving her body towards her, shoulders and chest shifting forward in a way that’s both menacing and welcoming, the dangerous predator with a careful fondness for her prey. She ghosts her lips over her cleavage, pressing a line of wet and small kisses to the swell of breasts where they’re free of clothing, and Regina breathes slowly as she closes her eyes, carding her fingers in Maleficent’s thick hair and keeping her in place. It seems to her that her panting breaths are nothing but an effort to keep her chest where Maleficent’s kisses can reach it, and she suddenly wishes herself naked.

Maleficent stops yet again, though, moving back so that she can rest her weight against her chair, and snagging her goblet back with a stubborn smirk.

“Eat something, you look ready to faint, and I don’t feel like carrying you to bed unless you’re awake and moaning.”

Regina rolls her eyes, trying to make light of Maleficent’s words even when she knows herself tired beyond belief. Now that she’s sitting, her muscles and bones have started reminding her of her sustained injuries, bruising that she has nearly managed to forget. Her flesh feels tender even when she suspects nothing but a few bumps from having fallen to the floor, her right side almost on fire and her ribs complaining, her hip and thigh pulsating steadily. She wonders at the yellows and purples that she will surely find on her skin once she removes her clothing and groans at the thought of a bath and a comfortable bed, looking sharply in Maleficent’s direction, hoping that if she makes the request for them it will be granted and shared. For now, she stares at Maleficent’s full table, and frowns when she finds warmed wine with bread and honey soaked in it, a robust meal usually reserved for painful recovery. She looks at Maleficent through hooded eyes, and finding her gaze fixed upon the fire, she chooses not to word her questions, and instead heats up the by now cold concoction with a quick flick of her hand and eats a few bites that thankfully fall wonderfully on her empty stomach.

“Have you gotten any rest at all lately?” Maleficent wonders suddenly, her tone aloof and her eyes far away from Regina, as if she needs to hide herself away lest she shows Regina any actual worry.

Regina twists her lips into an rueful smile as she answers, “With Snow hiding herself away in my bedchambers? Hardly. I can’t wait to wrap my hands around her thin neck and squeeze.”

Maleficent barks out a laugh at that, now looking at her with sharp focus, as if appraising her in a different light. Regina hates her for it; she came here to keep the scrutiny and judgment of the court away, not to be subjected to further exploration from someone she wishes would look upon her with nothing but burning desire.

“Are you still on about that?” Maleficent wonders. “There is nothing for you in that path.”

“Revenge, Mal,” Regina answers, suddenly bristling. She has had this discussion with the woman on more than one occasion, Maleficent claiming that her need for revenge against Snow is petty and unnecessary, and Regina despises her for being the sole witness to her breakdown and still trying to convince her that she should stop now that she is so close to fulfilling her wishes.

Maleficent snorts, though, holding her goblet thoughtfully between her hands and asking, “And then, what?”

Regina shrugs, non-committal. She is too tired to be angry, and she wishes Maleficent would give her a reprieve, even when she knows better than to ask for the impossible. “Then freedom, and power, and life, dear. I will not live peacefully until Snow White has paid.”

There’s a sigh followed by a hiss then, something more animal than human taking over when Maleficent stands up from her chair, even if her movement remains uncharacteristically haggard. Regina studies her with careful eyes, wonders at the strain that rests at the corner of her mouth as she walks towards her bed, the dance-like walk that Regina has always loved now clunky and staggering. She knows Maleficent is prone to brooding and drunkenness, but something about her stumbling frame feels wrong, and Regina fights the urge to go to her so that they can lie down together and rest.

“My darling, I do love your resilience, but people like us can’t possibly win. The game is rigged, and not in our favor.”

“People like us?” Regina questions, turning sharply on her seat so that she can look at Maleficent, watch her sit down at the edge of her bed and take a sip of her ever-present goblet. The movement tugs at her side painfully, but she ignores the bruise so that she can settle the weight of her stare on the other woman.

Maleficent twirls her hand in the air, cavalier as she says, “The bad people.”

The comment throws her aback, a memory pushing at her and making her unintentionally whisper, “Rumpel said I was bad.” Then, just as suddenly, “Why? Why must they be virtuous and good and us bad?”

Maleficent looks at her as if her question is obvious and adamantly stupid, but Regina glares back with sudden stubbornness. She stands up, steadier now on her feet after eating and resting a while, cured of the mood that had so easily conquered her when thinking of the wounds inflicted by Leopold. It seems to her that everyone finds her the obvious villain in the story, her thoughts taking her back to a tour across the kingdom that had crowned Snow as the virtuous and kind ruler and her as the deathly and fearsome witch, twirling inside her head as they scream how unjust the judgment is. After all, how could anyone condemn her as villainous when all her nightmares are shaped in the bruises that Leopold etched into her skin, when Daniel rests forever dead because of the capriciousness of one girl, when she has hidden herself behind so many masks that she has almost forgotten her own heart just to be approved of in a court laced with the harshest of hypocrisies?

When Maleficent speaks again, her voice makes Regina flinch, even when it's low and full of candor, ruefully understanding of Regina’s question. “We are the witches, Regina, talking of destruction and pain.”

“And what about my pain?” Regina counters, the fire in her voice dying as the questions lingers in the air between them, anger giving way to hopeless melancholia, her own sorrow pulling at her until all she has left to wonder is, “Is my pain less important than theirs?”

“Yes, my darling, yes it is.”

From anyone else, the statement would have been a source of anger, but the quiet understanding on Maleficent’s tone deflates Regina, makes something sickening and vile pool low in her belly, festering wounds that remain coldly open making her sag unwittingly, forcing her to admit a single truth that she has refused to accept for as long as she has lived – that’s she’s unimportant, less, that her pain is easy to dismiss and insufficient to justify her anger, that all she can aspire to is the favor of those she despises, and that she owes to them to be the mild, willing servant that they desire. She revels against the thought even as her fury shrinks and flattens at her feet, a decade long fatigue making her wish she could give up. And were she someone else she might, she may just take the silent offer of Maleficent’s eyes and bury herself in the crook of her neck, hide away forever and wither in this forbidden fortress, this haven for her wretched soul. She is too far gone to step back now, though, the emptiness inside her too hollow and big for her to do anything but move forward, hero or villain she doesn’t know, but righteous in her purpose. _You will endure,_ and if mother had ever taught her something then that is that there is nothing that can possibly stop her if only she straightens up her spine accordingly, lifts her chin with pride and doesn’t allow herself to be distracted.

“Come on, let’s not fight,” Maleficent requests, the silence that has stretched between them tense and discomfiting, strange when they have always been comfortable in their quietness.

Regina shakes her head, not particularly sure whether she’s agreeing with Maleficent’s request or whether she’s denying her. Still, obstinate, she says, “It is not their game to win, not anymore.”

A pause lingers between them, a beat that lasts a moment too long, and then Maleficent is laughing, something open yet raspy, full and rich in a way that both perplexes Regina and fills her up with sudden warmth. It extinguishes soon, and then Maleficent gives her a look full of mirth and carefully veiled fondness, sensuous by virtue of its fervor.

“Do as it pleases you then, darling; kill your princess or let her live,” she intones, shrugging slightly and turning her body towards her as she lifts up a hand and leaves it in the air, quietly expecting to be filled with an equal. “But let’s not fight you and I; it’s been too long.”

Regina understands the hidden message of Maleficent’s words, reads between the lines and hears the naked admission that they will never speak to each other but behind concealed uncertainties – _I missed you_ , and despite mother’s lessons and her own unwillingness to stand down, if Maleficent can allow herself such a confession then Regina can pay back in kind, and bask in the relief of her if only for a short time.

“Yes,” she replies, a soft smile tugging her lips upwards, genuine affection in the gesture. “It has been far too long, dear.”

Regina walks towards where Maleficent is sitting on the bed and stands before her, relishing, if only for a second, that she is the one looking down upon the taller and always imposing woman. Maleficent gives her a smile, small, knowing and wickedly enticing, and Regina sways towards her, hazy as her weight falls forward and into Maleficent, her lips dry when they find the witch’s. Regina suspects that Maleficent is more than a little drunk, and she can still taste the remnants of the lemon liqueur at the back of her own mouth even when she barely took a sip, as well as the hearty flavor of the spiced wine of the broth she ate. She’s thankful that Maleficent made her eat even if just a bit, feeling that she would collapse had she not, her own lethargy paired with the shape of Maleficent’s lips under her own enough to permeate her head with a pleasurably dizzy spell. Regina finds Maleficent’s shoulders yet again, looking for support when Maleficent rests the tips of her fingers tantalizingly at the top of her breast, where blood had stained her skin moments before.

Regina sits down then, next to Maleficent rather than on her lap, the fabric of her skirt uncomfortably tight and not allowing her enough freedom of movement. She berates herself for her choice of garment, even more so when she grabs Maleficent’s hand and guides her to cup her breast through her clothes, her thumb resting on the exposed flesh over her cleavage, and the feeling is too unsatisfying over the hard material of her corset. Maleficent squeezes knowingly until Regina whimpers, though, something like a squeaky complaint at the amount of barriers still present between them. Regina despises the clingy weakness present in her sounds, but she has been bereft of touch so comforting and desired for too long, so rather than shy away from her neediness she moves closer, bringing one hand to the back of Maleficent’s neck so she can keep her firmly in their kiss. Maleficent smiles against her lips, but lets her get away with her pushiness and presses her tongue into her mouth, deep, warm and searching, coaxing Regina’s own to follow playfully.

Maleficent’s hand travels from her breast down to her bottom, purposefully looking for the base of Regina’s spine, a desperately miraculous spot that Daniel had found during one of their giggly, awkward and reckless evenings in the stables, and that never fails to make Regina mewl with unwavering pleasure. Maleficent had even made her climax just by biting at the spot on one occasion, and Regina is suddenly thankful at being in the willing and experienced hands of a known lover. Regina moves forward as Maleficent’s hands move down, instinctually drawing closer and searching for long forgotten warmth. As she leans down, her lips intent on drawing a careful line of kisses on the edge of Maleficent’s cleavage, she rests her hand on Maleficent’s stomach, her barely there touch enough to elicit an obviously pained hiss from the other woman. Regina moves her hand back as if burnt, hazy heat momentarily clouding her so she takes a moment before she can bring herself to break away from Maleficent’s lips, particularly when Maleficent herself is not willing to let her go, obviously wanting her to ignore whatever it is that may be hurting her.

“What it is?” Regina murmurs when she manages to keep her mouth away from Maleficent’s, even if barely a breath separates them.

Maleficent twists her mouth disagreeably, but gives in with a tired sigh, as if she knows that there’s no point in fighting Regina’s stubborn inquisitiveness. “Nothing serious, my dear; Stefan and I like to get into a scuffle every once in a while, for old time’s sakes.” Her tone is detached and remote, but Regina reads the weariness behind it, and is reminded of the clumsiness she had spied earlier in Maleficent’s movements.

Trying to distract her, Maleficent moves towards her with purpose, but Regina rejects the advance easily, instead ghosting her hand over Maleficent’s stomach, the fabric of her gown so rough that it makes her wrinkle her nose. However cautious as her touch is, Maleficent flinches, the nails of the hand she’s resting on Regina’s hip digging in harshly, as if punishing her in return for the discomfort inflicted. Regina stops herself from _tsk-_ ing disapprovingly, and instead fixes Maleficent with a tenaciously determined gaze as she reaches down and for the edge of her gown, so she can push her hand under the fabric. Maleficent’s eyes suggest that she wants to protest, but under Regina’s painstakingly slow approach she deflates and falls limply against her, huffy even as she lets Regina travel up with her hand. Regina presses soft fingers to the back of Maleficent’s calf, biting her lower lip when the skin under her hand is nothing if not pliant, asking to be touched. Her hand glides up, taking the fabric of the gown with it as she finds Maleficent’s thigh, her fingers resting tantalizingly close to the curls between her legs before they keep journeying up and up until finding the jagged edges of a barely scarred wound. Regina traces the clumsily sewn skin, fingertips achingly attentive in the face Maleficent’s obvious discomfort, and she discovers a wide and curvaceous cut that crisscrosses with Maleficent’s old, thick scar. Her fingers prod precisely and rigorously until they have learnt the curve of the wound perfectly, and her lips find the skin of Maleficent’s neck to soothe while she explores. The skin under her lips is satiny and smells sweet, her kisses barely there caresses that Regina deepens only when Maleficent buries her hand in her tangled hair and presses her closer, keeps her right where she is.

She wonders at Maleficent’s statement, her old feud with King Stefan something that Regina knows so little about. It has always been the case with them, Regina the one to speak her mind, to unveil her truths while Maleficent remained silent while lending a half bored, half amused yet attentive ear. It’s odd, Regina thinks, how well she knows this woman but how little she knows about her, about her story and the truth behind her brooding and willing imprisonment behind the walls of this fortress. And if her own story is anything to go by, then Regina knows better than to trust the rumors that surround Maleficent’s legend.

Rather than ask further about the fresh cut, knowing that she will get nothing but shrugged shoulders and an unwillingness to answer, Regina chooses to provide comfort as best as she knows how to, considering the relief being offered back. After all, Regina notices that her own shoulders are relaxed when her whole frame has been tense for days, and she feels impossibly warm all over, her skin tingling even at the smallest of Maleficent’s touches.

Regina leaves her exploration of the wound and rests her hand on Maleficent’s hip instead, relishing the feel of skin rather than fabric, and moves her mouth up to claim Maleficent’s yet again in a kiss that turns abruptly desperate, as if the time they have spent apart and without tasting each other is suddenly unthinkable and jarringly unnatural. She sinks into the kiss, whimpers when she bites a plump lower lip before pushing in tongue first, parting a willing mouth that promises insurmountable warmth.

There is no stopping after that, not when Regina’s head feels woozy after the simplest of kisses, and when it’s so very easy to keep moving her hand up until Maleficent’s gown is completely gone and the long expanses of her skin are before her, marred by wounds but intoxicatingly beautiful. She touches her softly, carefully, and Maleficent grunts at the frustrating fragility of Regina’s hands, demanding harder caresses that Regina refuses her just to wind her up.

“My darling, if you weren’t as tempting as you are frustrating–”

But Regina doesn’t let her finish her words, kissing her instead with the buried longing of their years of separation, with the unmitigated hunger that has brimmed under her skin ever since Maleficent branded her with her touch and made every other seem lacking by simple contrast. They kiss long and hard, Regina prolonging the moment even when she feels on fire, her whole skin tingling and wet arousal pooling low on her belly, creamy between her legs. In the end, she only ever stops when Maleficent threatens to rip her dress apart, complaining that the collar is bound to end up poking her eye out, as if she’d ever needed an excuse to carelessly dispose of Regina’s clothes. Back when they’ve had a steady affair, Regina had spent more money than ever in new outfits, Maleficent’s proclivity for doing away with fine fabrics one that she’d secretly enjoyed. Rather than let her destroy this one, though, Regina leaves her side and fights her own dress until she’s completely disrobed and standing by the bed, the already greenish bruising on the side of her torso, her back and leg looking worse than it actually feels.

They tumble to the bed delicately, though, mindful of their bruising even when their hands turn feverish and rushed in their touch. They should be sleeping their wounds away rather than tangling into each other like this, but they have never been entirely too inclined to common sense when it came to each other, so instead Regina lets Maleficent rest her weight above her, pressing their bodies together chest to chest and hips to hips, so that they can kiss and touch with ease. It’s not their more coordinated effort, and the grunts and whimpers that fill the room sometimes come from a painful jab at aching flesh rather than from a pleasurable touch, but it hardly matters – not when Maleficent’s fingers find her wet and pulsing and push inside mercilessly, when the instinctual rocking motion of her body has their nipples meeting each other in insistent brushes, when they’re so desperate for kisses that they keep bringing their lips together even when they’re breathless. Regina holds onto Maleficent’s hip to keep her steady for a second, and then cups between her legs with her free hand for a minute, teasing at her clit with the heel of her hand as she slips inside her, three curled fingers just the way she likes. Like this, inside each other, they form a complete circle, pleasure, heat and soft moaning conquering the room around them and making it feel impossibly intimate, all the more when Maleficent’s forehead rests against her own and the curtain-like fall of her hair around them hides everything but her diluted blue eyes from her sight. Regina bites her lower lip, notices a secret smile curving it up, giddy with the shared heat of their bodies, and when Maleficent kisses that smile away, Regina hears the silent _hello_ covered in desperate caresses, the mute confessions that they make with flesh and moans.

Regina rolls her hips more insistently when she notices pleasure chasing at her, travelling down her spine and curling heavily at its base, trailing soft and steady spikes all the way around her hips and to her belly. Her mouth parts on a moan, and her hand moves from Maleficent’s hip and to the roundness of her buttocks, her nails digging into the cool skin there as if to force her to stay right where she is, with her fingers deep inside Regina and now simply scratching rhythmically to the cadence of her hips. Regina closes her eyes tightly and speeds up her own pace between Maleficent’s legs, the thankful grunt that follows causing a smile that is only stopped from fully blossoming when cresting bliss hits her, warm, slow and enduring, her thighs trembling with the effort even as she rides it out until the last embers die down, leaving her boneless enough that she’s grateful when Maleficent’s peak follows closely behind, and has the witch dropping all her weight on top of Regina. Maleficent’s body, taller than hers and cumbersome in its lackadaisical rest, feels ridiculously delightful covering her own, even when they’re both clammy with sweat and breathing unsteadily, hot puffs of air from Maleficent’s pants caressing her neck. Regina holds her right where she is for a moment, and then finds herself laughing unsteadily, a surge of lightheaded giddiness making her feel alive. Maleficent, who is laughing right along with her, manages to move back enough so that they can lock eyes, and the mirth that Regina is faced with only heightens the dizzy madness of her recovery from pleasure.

Maleficent, her face an exquisite mix of flushed cheeks, wicked half smile and with the crimson of Regina’s lips staining her mouth, gives her one hard, solid kiss, as if trying to prove a point, and then simply says, “Hello to you too, my darling.”

 

* * *

 

Regina wakes up from her slumber when her stomach grumbles appreciatively and noisily, as if neglected. When she first opens her eyes, she finds herself disoriented for a second, the first lights of the sun coming up on what is bound to be a grey day confusing her until she notices the cold lump pressed languidly on top of her stomach, and her own fingers tangled in soft yet knotted hair. She blinks owlishly and bites back a smile, waking up next to Maleficent a rare enough occurrence that she can’t help herself. Even when their meetings had been regular and desperately needy, Maleficent had never been too keen on sharing her bed for activities other than hearty lovemaking, and Regina had always reproached her when she’d refused her the comfort of a dreamless embrace. After all, despite the number of people she has bedded, Regina hasn’t done a whole lot of post-coital bed-sharing, not in the least because she never actually shared a bed with Daniel.

Maleficent had been drunk last night, though, and the cut marring her torso is uglier than Regina had suspected, and probably more painful than Maleficent will ever confess. Whatever scuffle with Stefan she’d had, as she’d put it, had probably been more of a vastly extended battle, but Regina has no hopes that Maleficent will find it in herself to share the story. She hadn’t been one to share a few years back and that particularly irritating disposition hasn’t changed; proof enough had been last night, when Maleficent had prodded Regina into speaking of her own affairs as she laid lazy kisses around her bellybutton and teasingly close to the apex of her thighs, distracting her skillfully enough that Regina had easily complied. Perhaps, and if she’s honest with herself, she’d simply wanted to rant and rage carelessly, Maleficent giving her the priceless freedom of not having to mind her words.

Thus, Regina had spoken of a queen she had bedded and killed in a fragile moment of ire, of a plague that had consumed her and forced her to throw every other concern aside, and which had given her the ultimate chance to rule her kingdom. She’d spoken of Snow getting sick, of her pact with Rumpelstiltskin and the death of Prince Bernard, a little soul so deserving of life that Regina still avoided thoughts of him as best as she could, so as not to add grief to her own heartbroken despair. She’d talked of an ungrateful kingdom, too, her words whispered yet furious, ramblingly intense until they had ultimately died when she’d noticed Maleficent’s breathing steady with sleep, her palm outstretched over the fading scar on Regina’s belly, strangely protective.

As the morning lights up the room, Regina considers leaving Maleficent and going back to the palace, knowing fairly well that yesterday’s wake will be on everyone’s tongue, and that she should perhaps make an appearance. She’s not particularly sure of how she’s going to deal with the discovery of her magic, though, and truth be told, she feels extremely relaxed and disconsolate at the idea of leaving so soon. She’s hungry as well, so she chooses to start her day with an early breakfast that she may just convince Maleficent to share with her. That idea in mind, she disentangles herself carefully from the other woman and rather than put back her own dress, covers herself with one of Maleficent’s robes. It’s ridiculously long on her and the fabric, cheap to begin with, has been roughened up by too much use, but it’s big and warm and smells like some kind of foreign herb, making Regina feel comforted by it.

Regina walks through the corridors of Maleficent’s fortress with ease and prior knowledge, her presence unsurprising to the few guards Maleficent keeps around. It had always seemed silly to Regina, considering that the dragon witch is far more threatening than any of these trained humans can ever hope to be, but then Regina supposes there is something comfortable about not having to do all the work. She reaches the kitchens soon enough, and is comforted when she finds a familiar face behind the heavy wooden doors, Maleficent’s ever faithful cook Leonor welcoming her with something of an awry smile.

“Long time no see, m’lady,” Leonor mumbles, something like reproach in her harsh tone. “Good to know there’s someone here to take care of her illustrious hard-headedness; coming back home with her guts hanging out and not wanting to eat like she should. Don’t let her get away with it, m’lady.”

Regina leaves the kitchens with a tray laden with breakfast, an extracted promise to force-feed Maleficent if necessary, and a smile. Regina has always liked Leonor, her rough way with words and her coarse _m’ladys_ denoting a less than privileged background, but her gruff mother-like behavior endearing her to Regina in delightful ways. There is something in the woman that reminds Regina of old Master Clive, and the memory of the unpolished yet kind master of the stables never fails to bring warmth to her, the nostalgia of a time that had been simpler, when she still hadn’t known that her feelings for Daniel were anything like love, and when Master Clive had been the one generous hand she had known. He had bid her be happy and strong on his deathbed, and the thought that she may be failing on both accounts sometimes gnaws at her.

Maleficent is reticent to eat her breakfast, but she eventually concedes, if only to, as she so succinctly puts it _get your pretty mouth to be quiet._ They share soft bread and jam, as well as some juicy dates which Regina enjoys especially, having not had any for as long as she’s been away from Maleficent. The morning finds the witch morose, though, her hand unconsciously wandering to her own stomach and resting there for a second before moving away, as if wanting to keep the memory of her wound away. Regina relates easily to the feeling, but prods Maleficent for an explanation, ending up thoroughly surprised when Maleficent grants one, if short and to the point, her voice emotionless and her words biting.

“I got bored,” she says. “Paid a visit to the queen, saw her weep for her sleeping daughter. The king wasn’t happy.” She shrugs, uncomfortable to the point where the sneer touching her lips makes her look ugly, or at least as ugly as someone possessing Maleficent’s beauty can ever possibly be.

Regina twists her mouth at the lack of answers provided in the small confession, wonders why it is so important to her that Maleficent speaks of her wounds. Perhaps it’s because she’d been so inadvertently secure in her speech last night, when she’d given herself the role of the villain in a game that she had referred to as rigged. Maleficent has been discouragingly weary for as long as Regina has known her, completely abandoned in the face of a world that she had stopped fighting long ago, having given up the idea of being more than what she already is, and there must be something in her past that has made her capitulate to the unfairness of it all, that keeps making her wish Regina would bow out of her own fight as well.

“She looked old, you know?” Maleficent says all of a sudden, her gaze lost somewhere in the ceiling and a forgotten piece of bread between her fingers. Strawberry jam coats her skin, and Regina hates that the thought of the gooey treat will forever remind her of too many a night spent in a dark cellar. The memory is easier to ignore this time when Maleficent clarifies, “Briar Rose, she looked old, desperate, so tired.”

A rueful smirk mars Maleficent’s expression, something dark and primal that makes her look like the dragon that she is. Regina smiles at her, for as much as Maleficent insists on moping agony, there is obvious delight at the thought of the suffering of her old enemy.

“What did she ever do to you?” Regina wonders, leaning forward and into Maleficent’s space, hoping to bring her attention back to her. It does the trick, Maleficent’s eyes finding hers and then moving unsubtly to the open gap of her gown, most of her body visible through it.

“She didn’t love me enough,” Maleficent confesses, a sigh of vulnerability in her that lasts but a second before she turns the conversation towards Regina, easily hiding herself once again. “Your princess loves you, though.”

“She loves the person she believes me to be,” Regina answers thoughtlessly, the words falling easily from her lips with no doubt present in her tone.

“But you love _her._ ”

Regina laughs at the implication, shakes her head even when Maleficent is looking at her with as much seriousness as she can muster. The thought is preposterous and painful, and Regina is sure Maleficent means to hurt her with it, her disposition growing vicious when confronted with her own set of issues.

“Don’t you dare, Mal,” Regina answers, simple and quiet, avoiding the hidden and crooked truths of Maleficent’s words.

Maleficent ignores her easily, though, a one shoulder shrug speaking of insolent disapproval and her eyes boring into Regina as if wanting to look into her soul. It’s not her usual predatory gaze, but rather bottomless pits of blue wanting to brand Regina with understanding, whispering unwanted veracity in the corners of her mind. Regina stands up swiftly, turns her back to Maleficent’s knowing stare and hugs her arms around herself, closing the too big robe around her body as if to keep the cold away. She came here looking for someone who could look at her and care for her even when staring at her true broken and jagged reality, someone who could look upon her with fondness when she is being nothing but furious determination, and she hates that the fact that Maleficent can do exactly that also means that she can see past it all and into the deepest recesses of her heart.

“Enough of that now, come on. Come here, little girl.”

Regina looks back with a grin on her lips and a twitching eyebrow, finding herself unable to remain serious when Maleficent smiles at her with mirth settled on the curve of her lips. She walks to her and stands before her, a protest dying on her lips when long-fingered hands touch at her arms until she’s uncrossing them, and then push her robe open yet again, exposing her to hungry eyes. Maleficent’s hands tread carefully over her skin, fingertips pushing at the tender flesh at the edges of her by now purple bruises, running them ticklishly light over her sensitive skin when Regina hisses at the touch.

“And what now, Your Majesty? What is the next big plan?” Maleficent asks, swiftly stopping any answer Regina may have provided by leaning forward to press the softest of kisses on her breast bone, her hands leaving bruised skin to travel to the underside of her breasts.

Regina stops her with a laugh, bringing her hands to Maleficent’s cheeks and pulling her face up until they’re looking into each other’s eyes. Maleficent’s eyes seem to twinkle, amused blue staring back at her, and Regina feels light, lighter than she has felt in years.

“Now, dear, Snow White dies, and I live happily ever after.”

 

* * *

 

Regina’s return to the palace is strangely quiet, the truth of her magical powers somehow failing to make as much of an impact as she had foreseen. The people of the kingdom had already been convinced of her witchy condition, after all, and the members of the court are either happily ignoring what they saw and choosing to discuss the disgraceful attack she was victim of, or simply abandoning the premises and going back to their homes. Regina finds herself more glad for the latter group than for the former, whose insistence on bewildered disregard forces her into a game of soft smiles and shared denseness that she would rather avoid altogether. She does, mostly, fairly convinced that the palace will be free of noblemen in very little time. After all, even those who insist on blind unintelligence are obviously discomfited by her, if not scared. This suits Regina perfectly, since her plans include a palace free of a forever changing court surrounding her and watching her every move – from now on, she will receive only those she must see on business, and have her palace only inhabited by servants and guards.

Surprisingly enough, most of the council stands strong behind her, both the Military Advisor and the Treasury Master becoming her most vocal supporters, the first one even unexpectedly interested in her magical prowess. It’s both invigorating and satisfying in an emotional way that Regina wouldn’t have guessed at, this council that she has so worked to own being truly hers without prodding or pushing, shaping itself around her new figure as true queen and leaving the memory of the king behind with such uncompromised ease. Regina is glad, too, for as much as she wishes she could rule by herself, she’s not so arrogant as to believe herself in no need for advice and experienced knowledge on certain subjects.

Despite the rueful thankfulness she feels for her council, there are certain matters than only she herself is privy to, namely, her plans to remove Snow from her life once and for all. The princess has been quietly supportive of her, hiding whatever fear Regina may have instilled in her with her uncanny ability to ignore that which upsets her and skews her view of the world, but Regina knows that there is no possible way in which they can possibly go back now, not when Regina has wished Snow dead for a decade, and when Snow has been given a glimpse of Regina’s ill-intentioned soul. They are irreparably broken, Snow’s faith in her gone and buried under Regina’s harshness, and if Regina had a hard time dealing with Snow’s demeanor before, the forced smiles that she bestows upon her these days, as well as the obvious distance she keeps between them at all times only manage to grate on her nerves even more.

She’s irritable, she knows, whatever lightness visiting Maleficent may have inspired in her already gone, each day that Snow remains within the palace next to her only managing to drive her madder. She has waited too long for this, and so a month after the king’s death, Regina finds a huntsman who cares more for animals than he does humans, and bids him kill Snow White, foregoing games and plots in exchange for quiet and quick efficiency. If she has to pretend grief over the princess’ death later then she will do as she must, but for her death she chooses tried and true cruelty, the hands of an unknown man carving out her heart, much like Leopold had cut her own on their wedding night, much like mother had crushed Daniel's in spite of Regina’s pleas and tears.

For days now, Regina has been sending one of her guards with Snow whenever the princess has chosen to take a walk through the state, arguing that the king’s death as well as the attack she herself suffered are reasons enough to keep her well-guarded. There is no difficulty, then, in putting the huntsman in her preferred black garb and make sure he’s the one trailing Snow this afternoon. Regina figures that it is only her luck that has made Snow prone to long and slow strolls ever since her father’s death.

Unknown wishes that Regina chooses not to examine too closely, lest she finds herself loosing herself in unwanted sentimentality, have her setting up a meal for both herself and the princess on the late morning of the day Snow is bound to die. She makes sure the table is filled with Snow’s favorite dishes; soft fish steamed in banana leaves, which Regina has always found too bland; okra stew with cheese and ham, hearty, strong and fulfilling, a dish that father always insisted on having during the coldest nights of winter; potato omelet cooked with big pieces of onion, which Regina remembers Snow had looked at with trepidation the first time she’d tried it, only to smile widely after the first taste; apple tart made with fruit from Regina’s tree, which she had hand-picked herself; and warm, honeyed wine to help pass the strong meal. It’s a dream table, set for two, and Regina wonders why she has chosen food as her last goodbye to Snow, wonders if mother’s old words – _families must eat together, dear_ – still ring true to her heart.

They eat in silence, and the food, though spectacularly delicious, falls ill on Regina’s stomach. She’s sitting ramrod straight, and her corset feels unwaveringly tight around her torso, the whip-like ponytail her hair is combed into too heavy on her head, and the morsels of food she’s taking too dainty. She wants to dig into the meal with manic ease, big pieces and dirty hands, something savage crawling in her chest as she looks at Snow, her own hands delicate and slow, pale and beautiful and lady-like in their movement, gracefully natural where Regina’s own hands feel crotchety, jerky and stiff. She’s tense, every pore of her skin anxious, and she wonders at herself, at her own wishes to torture herself with this last meal.

Snow only ever stops eating once the last piece of tart is polished, her mouth clean of the glossy pastry and her tongue chasing the last bit of flavor away from her lips. Regina thinks that perhaps it would have been kinder of her to poison the girl, so that she could die with the sweet flavor of apples on her tongue.

“Regina, I–I just…” Snow says after a moment of quietness, one which Regina has used to stare at her with a heavy gaze, and which has Snow squirming skittishly. She doesn’t manage to say anything, though, the words dying in her throat as she looks at Regina with wide eyes, silently begging her to understand whatever it is she wishes to say. Regina guesses that she wants to apologize, much like she has been trying to do for the past few weeks, to excuse herself for daring to look at Regina with fear clouding her gaze. Snow isn’t made for falsehood though, and she can hardly fake an apology that she feels untrue in her heart. Regina wants to laugh at her, mock her for turning Regina into the best of liars when she has to keep her tongue at bay from spilling anything but the truth.

Regina licks her lips with delight, the last of her wine now gone and her stomach much too heavy, but her spirit soaring at the thought of years of struggle coming to an end. She says, “Dear, why don’t you go on and walk about the state for a while now? I have a council meeting to attend soon.”

Snow concedes easily, nodding at her and hiding her eyes away as she stands, ruffling fabrics accompanying her every move. She has been wearing nothing but the purest of whites lately, a stark contrast to the ghoulish blackness she had preferred before, and she looks almost too perfect, the story-like representation of everything a princess must be, young, regal yet sweet, with enough spirit to be of interest yet mild enough to understand her place, and the whole picture of her disgusts Regina. Regina, who even as a child had been too dark, had needed harsh lessons beaten into her skin to make her into a proper lady, and even then had remained an imperfect reflection in the mirror.

Snow stops by the door before she leaves, something ethereal in the image of her as she stands unmoving at the threshold of Regina’s chambers – skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, hair as black as ebony, and truly the fairest of them all.

“Regina, would you walk with me today?” she wonders, voice soft and eyes unwaveringly clear as they stare into Regina’s.

Regina frowns, bristles as she answers, “Did you not hear me? The council meet–”

“Walk with me anyway,” Snow interrupts, harsh, desperation crawling into her tone like Regina has never heard before.

All of Regina’s instincts clamor for her to accept, to bend to Snow’s will as she has done for so many years now, to play into her role like the good little queen she is, but then, what would her huntsman think if he were to see them walking together, and what would her heart feel like as it shriveled and died in the face of such cowardice?

“No, my dear Snow, not today.”

Snow crosses the distance separating them then, quick steps that bring her back into the room and closer to Regina than she has been in weeks. She snags Regina’s hand between both of her own, the touch forceful and her fingers squeezing tight, as if suspecting that Regina may want to escape it. She leans close just as precipitously, the flurry of her movement only pausing once she’s pressed her cheek against Regina’s, the touch not quite a kiss, and yet unbearably intimate. Snow smells sweet, of apple juice and the honey from the wine they’d both drunk, and Regina’s free hand shakes at the invasion, her thumb wanting to press hard and painfully against her other palm just to calm her abruptly awoken senses. She can’t, though, not when Snow is still holding her one hand captive, trapped under a persistently abiding grip, and Regina thinks of restraining hands holding her wrists like the most cumbersome of shackles, mother’s, Leopold's and even Rumpelstiltskin’s, and she finds herself breathless.

“Regina, I do love you,” Snow mutters quietly against her ear, the skin of her cheek so soft that if Regina closes her eyes very tight, she may just be able to pretend that she isn’t there.

Regina swallows hard, thinks of words spoken in the shelter of Maleficent’s embrace, of a love much too poisoned from its very beginning to have an ending other than her death or that of the princess. And Regina is selfish, proud and much too tired to pretend that she would ever lay her own life for her false daughter, her unaware enemy, her pervasive nightmare. Mother taught her better, after all, and if Regina wishes to do away with her masks and personas, if she wishes to be angry, strong and decisive in front of this world that has rejected her so, then Snow White must die – and if the world refuses to love her regardless, then it will burn and join its chosen princess.

Softly, slowly, as if dealing with a small and frightened animal, Regina presses her free hand to Snow’s, the pads of her fingers gentle as she disengages herself from her. She moves with precision, hands to Snow’s shoulders now so that she draws back, the warmth of her body leaving Regina’s. Her eyes are red-rimmed, tragic in their depth and ruining her angel-like features, unshed tears blotching her cheeks with crimson too deep. Snow looks ugly in her misfortune, and perhaps that is the reason for the world to grant her such effortless unhappiness.

“I know, dear,” Regina answers, her voice steady and her fingers digging hard on the fabric of Snow’s dress, fearing that they will tremble otherwise. “But it is time for your walk now, and I must leave you.”

Snow says nothing, but still looks at Regina for a moment longer. She can’t possibly know that Regina is sending her to her death, and yet the weary sadness written in her features makes Regina wonder. _Would_ Snow die willingly then, would she walk to her death with tears in her eyes and a last love confession? Has Regina failed her so utterly that she has grown up to be so weak? Or has Snow inherent goodness finally condemned her to her demise? It’s hardly important anymore, not when Snow snags a last quick kiss to Regina’s cheek, a touch so light that it makes a tender part of Regina’s insides hurt with unbidden emotion, and then walks away from the room without throwing another look back, a hidden and murderous huntsman behind her.

Regina breathes in slowly once she’s gone, and she exhales shakily. Despite her best efforts, her hands are shaking, small tremors crawling up her arms as if she were cold, begging her to hug her own frame and shrink, to make herself smaller until she is but a ball of exploding emotion. She doesn’t give into the wish, though, chases it away from her head with determination, and stills her hands by forming tight fists, digging long nails into her palms until she’s sure there will be crescent moons shaped into the sensitive skin. She stands up then, her movements fast and instinctual as she straightens her spine, feeling the knots uncoiling the muscles at her back, welcoming strong tension into her body. She lifts her chin, caresses a hand down her elongated neck and heaving chest, feeling if not like the lady that she never quite managed to be, then as the powerful and savage beast that she has become. She smirks at the thought, knowing that the expression suits her well, full lips painted a deep plum, and then she trudges away from the room, steps heavy and purposely strident, the clack of too high heels announcing her presence, and the black train of her dress trailing behind her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) But it is true that you are beautiful, cielo.
> 
> (2) I didn't make this up, this is actually a popular folk tale called "La Llorona" (The Crying Woman), which has a version in almost every Spanish-speaking country. The most ancient version comes from Mexico, but this particular reincarnation is the one told in Venezuela.


	6. Part VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW1: Implied eating disorder.
> 
> TW2: Mentions of past marital rape and past emotional abuse.
> 
> TW3: Mentions of past miscarriage. Also, this part deals with the canon events of "Mother" (4x20), where Regina takes a potion to make herself barren.
> 
> TW4: The farther this goes the more it deals with Regina's Evil Queen tendencies, so canon compliant type of violence and abuse; a little more violent than canon, actually.
> 
> -
> 
> AN: um... Robin Hood? Does that need a warning? Any case, I have a few commentaries regardidng a couple of characters (Robin and Graham), that I'll add at the end notes, in case anyone is interested in my ramblings.
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> Thank you everyone who has stayed here, btw, and thank you for the interest you've shown in the past few weeks. I'm sorry this update took so long, but as I told some of you, my parents visited for about a month, so I've been consumed by work and family, because I only get to see mom and dad a couple of times a year. Hopefully next updates will be more regular and frequent!

Regina turns twenty-nine and not for the first time, she forgets if not for father’s congratulations and gift, a small heart-shaped locket that is probably cheaper than any of the jewelry she possesses, but that manages to be lovelier nonetheless. Regina yanks it from father’s hands carelessly, though, spitefully upset at being reminded of the passing of time, and only stops herself from snapping when father flinches at the jerkiness of her movements.

She has spent her afternoon outside, observing the training of her latest recruits by the side of the Military Advisor, who had spent hours droning on about ogre attacks in some forgotten part of the kingdom, and had kept going even when a storm had broken the sky above them, cold and heavy water covering them from head to toe in mere seconds. The troops had kept up with their training, and Regina had stood by them with the air of someone simply not bothered by something as unimportant as the weather. As it is, she’s drenched, cold, and she has been tracking mud through the palace in a way that has her wincing irritably, hating that the bottom of her coat is ruined beyond repair and that she keeps expecting mother’s figure to appear from behind every corner she crosses, ready to reprimand her for her carelessness.

Regina deflates easily, however, the irritation clouding her mind leaving her in slow strokes when father whispers quietly, “Happy birthday, _cielo._ ” His tone is soft and careful, as if he expects her to snarl at him.

And, Regina admits, the thought isn’t completely inaccurate, not when the past few months have seen Regina at her most mercurial, placid in tense-inducing situations while angry in seemingly quiet moments. Locket in hand and father’s eyes before her, though, Regina’s strain diminishes as she allows herself to inspect the thoughtful present, a memento of time moving forward even when Regina sometimes believes herself to be stuck in a repetitive moment. It’s golden brass, the chain long yet light, and her name is engraved surrounded by floral patterns, cursive letters thin and elegant, reminiscent of father’s own beautiful calligraphy. Regina smiles, thinking of the many gifts father has given her through the years – books and small jewelry, a pocket mirror and a beautifully delicate music box – all of them managing to have her name somewhere on them, as if father is trying to steadfastly remind her of who she is. Two fathers, one real and one magical, and both obsessed with the power of names; Regina would laugh at the irony if only there was any pleasure in pitting father against Rumpelstiltskin, and in finding the former lacking.

“Thank you, daddy,” she says, her own voice soft for what feels like the first time in months, her plight under the rain almost forgotten when father pulls her into his warm embrace, never mind her soaked clothes or her wet and curling hair uncomfortably plastered to her forehead and the back of her neck.

After a short, warm bath and exchanging her riding clothes for a more informal set of nightwear and a thick robe, Regina allows herself to sit down for a calm moment to enjoy dinner with father. With her hair uncoiled and loose resting down her back, the soft smelling scent of lavender now clinging to it, and her skin warmed by the too hot water, she feels almost light, enough that the lemon tart father has ordered from the kitchens and pushed onto her plate makes her smile, the gesture small yet genuine.

Outside, the rain is pouring down mercilessly, the pattering of it against the windows heavy and rhythmical, and almost managing to lull Regina into an early sleep. She enjoys the stormy weather, the crackling fire inside her bedchambers all the more inviting when the sky is punishing the earth outside, something cozy and intimate settling around her and father as they linger by the table, sharing a cupful of wine and staring outside, as if too fascinated by the raindrops touching the glass of the windows intermittently.

If not for the constant sound of water falling, the palace would be completely silent, devoid now of the ever-present court that had inundated the hallways and chambers during Leopold’s reign. Regina supposes there is an eeriness to it, something ghostly taking over what had always been an open-door haven for whoever wished to visit, a privilege that many had abused over the years. Regina had hated being surrounded by people almost from the start, though, and as soon as she had become the sole ruler of the land, she had made a point of emptying the palace of court members she had no use for, and who insisted on scrutinizing her every action, much more so now that she refuses to quench her own instincts and play to their tastes. She has spent years changing herself to make others comfortable, and if only within the protected walls of her home, she will never do such a thing again. Her own demeanor had been enough to drive most noblemen away, her sudden outbursts and her wielding of magic no longer something to be ignored, and something about her eyes set on a permanent glare speaking of a hidden savagery that they had all wanted to escape. Baroness Irene had remained the longest, of course, puffing her chest out and claiming knowledge of Regina’s truths to the very end, trying to ingratiate herself to Regina to the point of exhaustion.

“Well, my darling,” the baroness had exclaimed one afternoon, fingers holding tight to a cup of tea and eyes nervous, but tone never betraying any tension as she continued, “You have lost your husband and the princess has… never mind, Your Majesty, the baroness is here and will always be here for you.”

And in another time, with a bumbling husband and a tiresome step-daughter hanging by her arm and pulling her down to the ground, Regina would have clung to the baroness’ words; she might have even appreciated the sentiment. In that particular afternoon, though, free of charges and with her mind more preoccupied with the organization of stronger border patrols than with catering to Baroness Irene’s ego, something in Regina had snapped, and she had spoken words that she had kept tightly wrapped around her throat for years, her voice sharp as knives. She had called the baroness _irritating, vapid, pointless and stupid,_ and had gleefully watched her eyes grow bigger and bigger with every new epithet, her cheeks draining of color and her mouth parting in astonished horror. Regina had pettily enjoyed every second of what must have surely felt like humiliating torture for the woman, relishing her final liberation from this inconsequential baroness that she had been forced to fawn over for years in order to please a court that had considered her opinion and favor of more importance than Regina’s own. The baroness had abandoned the premises that very same night, a last plea getting lost in the air as Regina’s expression was taken over by an easy smirk. Once elation had left Regina, a sense of peaceful delight had remained, the baroness somehow managing to represent everything that she had hated about life at court – loyalty provided only on the promise of mild mannerisms and wide-eyed demureness, friendship offered only in exchange for the privilege of whispering firsthand gossip to every willing ear.

The baroness had taken her brother with her in her escape, too, good old Baron Edgar who had once granted Regina entry into the council and who had made a granddaughter out of her. Regina had never minded him much, his golly attitude almost charming, but she hadn’t cared for him enough to regret his parting, or even to fill his vacated council seat.

The parting of the court but for the families and members of the council has drowned the palace in quietness, foreign if not unpleasant. The constant buzz of moving people, of meals being prepared, of carriages arriving and leaving and of voices filling rooms is gone, giving way to a vast silence that Regina can’t help but relish, her senses feeling suddenly liberated from the cumbersome and steady trickle of distracting noise around her. The uncanny lull of the palace should be preoccupying, but Regina feels as if she can breathe openly now in every room and hallway, as if she can finally stop containing herself. Tonight, celebrating a lonely birthday with father, perhaps the only true family she has ever had, she allows the quietude to calm her senses and silence her thoughts. It isn’t long before the noiselessness is broken with abrupt precision, though, the crying howl of a wolf managing to drown the sound of the rain and invade the placid stillness of the room.

“Oh, for heaven’s sakes, I should have killed that wolf when I had the chance,” Regina mutters, eyes that she had inadvertently closed snapping open abruptly and fingers tensing on the arms of her chair, holding tight onto the wood.

“ _Ciel–”_

“Daddy, that thing injured one of my men last week and it keeps disrupting my peace!”

As if cued by her words, there is another howl, loud enough that Regina would swear the animal is inside her bedchambers and not somewhere roaming the palace’s state. It must be impossibly close to the walls if its cries are so clear, but so far none of her men have managed to get ahold of the beast, making Regina regret showing mercy to the vexatious animal. It had seemed frivolous to her at the time, killing the faithful companion of the treacherous huntsman, but the past few months of random attacks and bothersome wolf cries have been enough to make Regina inclined to wish for the prompt death of the animal. She had expected it to leave after a while, but it seems that as long as the huntsman resides in her dungeons, and his heart within her vault, the wolf will remain close to its master, crying their separation away and disturbing Regina’s peace.

“What an unbearable noise,” she complains, her fingers pinching the bridge of her nose and anticipating a migraine.

Father says nothing, probably and correctly suspecting her gentleness gone for the night. If the last months have been any indication of the wolf’s usual behavior, it will be crying all night long, disrupting Regina’s hard-earned silence, and constantly reminding her of the truth that every single one of its howls seems to be hiding and that she wishes to find respite from – that somewhere out there in Leopold’s vast kingdom, hopefully caught under the implacable storm, dwells Princess Snow White, alive and running.

 

* * *

 

It takes half a year for the proposals to begin. It seems that the world around her has deemed that Regina has spent more than enough time as a mourning widow, and so, on the exact day that marks the six month anniversary of Leopold’s death, King Charles, ruler of a quaint and small maritime kingdom south of their border, arrives pompously at the palace, a court of dozens behind him carrying presents and entertainment meant to cheer the saddened queen. Regina receives him with half a smile and quiet amusement, and allows him to woo and court, to spend his kingdom’s money in an overly exaggerated display meant to convince her of what an honor it would be for her to become his wife.

Regina had met King Charles once before, during a visit Leopold had insisted upon a few years back and that she remembers having very little purpose. It had been during a winter fortnight, too, and Regina recalls standing by the docks that Charles was overly proud of, feeling biting wind hitting her skin while the salty scent of the sea invaded her nostrils. While pointless, the visit hadn’t been entirely unpleasant, and Regina easily brings back to her mind the image of King Charles back then, black and thick hair that time has already turned grey, and a loud and merry laugh. She also remembers the way his late wife, a young and plump thing with beautiful dark eyes named Joan, had flinched whenever the man had stepped close to her, laying a possessive hand at the small of her back. Regina had been twenty-six at the time, already freed of her own wifely duties, and when she’d found the young queen crying in the hidden corner of a balcony while the rest of the court enjoyed a splendorous ball, she’d taken her between her arms in a desperate attempt at soothing her broken spirit. Joan had clung to her for the rest of their visit, and when Regina had spied her eyeing the ocean with wide and maddened eyes, she had invited her to her chambers, had given her strong liquor and had held her in a tight embrace, calling her _cariño, sweetheart_ when her tears wouldn’t abate. She had also crawled between her legs and made her scream in pleasure, had done her best at kissing her pain away. She had received news of Joan’s death a month after they had left the palace, words of woe spoken at her body being found drowned in the wildness of the sea – and Regina hadn’t cried, but she’d cradled the letter to her heart with trembling hands.

King Charles proposes ten days after his arrival, and he’s arrogant enough to do it in public too, arranging for a band to play soft music as he speaks, and having laid a beautiful array of stringing lights all around her gardens. Had Regina been someone else, she might have appreciated the effort. The king’s words are flowery but empty, superfluous and so very obviously meant to compliment what the king thinks is a vain female heart that Regina has half a mind to stop him halfway through. She lets him finish, though, and when she very quickly denies him, she sees his familiar gaiety disappear as fury paints deep lines into his features. He’s wounded and aggravated, his anger quick to incense and making him impulsive, and before Regina can react he seizes her wrist in a strong grip and draws her closer and towards his own kneeling figure, bringing her frame down so that she’s staring right into his snarling face. And were Regina a wilting flower of a woman, she might have been scared, but her fury rivals and conquers this man’s easily, making her reach out with her free hand and drape swift and strong magic around his throat, so he chokes on whatever statement he was about to make. Unable to speak and obviously surprised by her abrupt and sudden maneuver, he claws at his neck, eyes wide and firmly settled on her, enraged rather than pleading even when she has his life carefully wrapped around her fingers.

Guards react quickly around them, both his and hers, and for a moment, it seems as if a confrontation is inevitable. Regina knows better, though, knows that this king will not risk his life when a snap of Regina’s fingers might end it, and so he deflates in mere seconds, making sure to have his knights stand down with a signal from his fingers, and throwing a calming look Regina’s way. Regina wavers, considers closing her hand and crushing the throat held within her power, ending the life of the waste of space that this man before her is. After all, she will not marry him, but some unsuspecting soul will do so in her stead, and shouldn’t she prevent a poor girl from that destiny? The thought tingles, tempting and unwittingly satisfactory, making her feel short of breath. She closes her eyes trying to find her focus, doing her best at thinking of the consequences of killing a ruling king before dozens of noblemen, and only stops herself when cool breeze hits her suddenly heated up face, reminding her of where she stands. She breaks her hold on his throat carelessly, smirking when he gasps and drops further down into his kneeling position, his hands remaining around his own abused neck as he coughs.   

“You will leave this palace immediately,” she intones, leaving no place for arguments as she stalks away from the scene.

King Charles is the first, but he most certainly isn’t the last. It seems that Leopold’s land is far more tempting than she is frightening, and that just about every nobleman available for marriage would be more than happy to try to tame her so called ill-tempered character. Duke Archibald even uses those exact words for a proposal, quickly followed by how her inappropriate outfits and penchant for small magic tricks is nothing but an obvious and needy call for the strong guiding hand of a man. Regina doesn’t bother with heavy magic in his case, but rather empties a cupful of wine over his ugly bald head when he demands an answer to his proposition.

A month after King Charles’ visit, she has received a total of eight marriage proposals, along with a nearly constant migraine that seems to only be heightened by rains that refuse to abate, and by the general dismay of her council, the members of which keep insisting on the advantages of a good marriage for her. Regina bristles at the thought, angry that no matter how much success she has harbored in the past with her hardworking hands and her busy mind, she will forever be regarded as a failure for remaining a motherless widow.

King George becomes her ninth suitor, and Regina laughs when the man, true to his usual unpleasant honesty, foregoes spectacles and fanfare and even refuses to come see her himself, sending his son and a letter instead. The bizarre maneuver amuses her enough that she receives Prince James with a smile, and even invites him into one of her favored sitting rooms and offers warm tea and apple fritters, which he munches on immediately and with what seems like honest delight.

“Mother used to love these,” he tells her. “You’ll make for the most wonderful step-mom.”

Regina rolls her eyes at him, particularly when he follows his statement with a leering grin as he directs his gaze towards her chest, her cleavage on display as she sits ramrod straight herself. When she offers no answer, though, he is quick to fill the silence with mindless chatter meant to be exactly that, his tone speaking of idle gossip and managing to be both derisive and quietly amusing, mocking his own courtly obligations with such obvious delight that Regina can’t help but be a little bit enchanted. She despises his cocky air and egotistical tone of principle, but the boy is certainly engaging and ornamental enough that she doesn’t mind him much. However, she cuts his speech before it can become long-winded, pointedly interrupting a story that has his eyes smiling with mischievous mirth.

“That’s enough for now, dear,” she says. “You have something for me.”

Prince James doesn’t seem bothered by her dismissal, but rather grins widely at her as he stares into her eyes with defiance in his own. He’s sprawled against the couch by now, arms spread wide on the back of it and one leg resting above the other with the air of a mighty god. Abruptly, the sight of him aggravates her, this young man that has obviously been taught to look at the world with arrogance, to lounge and occupy space he hasn’t fought for, and whatever little amusement she may have derived from him dissipates in an instant. He offers her a letter then, and she snags it with avid fingers and ignores him in favor of whatever words his stoic father may have for her.

_You are a smart woman, Your Majesty; I trust you to understand the advantages of the joining of our kingdoms. With our lands, armies and treasuries united under the sanctity of marriage no other kingdom will dare defy us – we will be unstoppable. Therefore, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife, and marrying our kingdoms as destiny demands?_

The moment she reads the missive, Regina wants to applaud at the clever way in which King George weaves his words. He certainly knows how to appeal to her far better than any other nobleman that has shared his intentions, complimenting her intellectual prowess, using her formal title and presenting their marriage as a business proposal rather than as a tale of love and longing, making sure to mention the power that their joining would bring forth. Had Regina intended to marry again, George would have certainly been her first choice, and perhaps her most logical and perfect match, but the last thing she needs is another man holding her prisoner. That thought in mind, she crumbles the letter in her hand and throws it to the fire, quietly ignoring Prince James’ lifted eyebrow as she finds ink and pen herself. In small letters and with fast and careless strokes, she writes a very simple answer that conveys what is probably the frustration of weeks persecuted by inept royals.

 _Oh George, dear, not you, too,_ is what she writes.

She folds and seals the letter, presenting it to the prince with an outstretched arm and a proud stance, and as he leans forward to grasp the paper in her hand, she tells him, “Oh, and please do tell your father that next time he wants something from me, I expect him to come before me and _kneel._ ”

Thenceforth, she refuses further visits. After all, while the parade of suitors and their extravagant displays have made for a fun distraction, the last thing Regina needs is for the outside world to encourage a council that wishes to see her married, as well as a kingdom that wishes it were a different woman at the head of their country. Although perhaps, it is precisely that one fact that she needs distraction from in the first place, if her Military Advisor is to be believed.

Duke Nicholas, who once was Military Advisor to Leopold and a firm believer that womanly hands shouldn’t have a place in the world of knights and swords, has by now become Regina’s most trusted ally within the council. It had taken years, breaking the strong prejudices of a man that Regina had at first thought too old to change his mind, but that very same reason is what makes Regina so positive in his loyalty towards her as of today. It must surely be the only reason why Regina allows him liberty enough to imply that she is driving everyone around her rather insane, and why she carefully regards his insinuations rather than smite him on the spot. Perhaps, she is simply self-aware enough to understand that the obsession that has been keeping her steadily awake for the last few months is one that her council and army don’t share, inasmuch as they don’t understand her sudden and vengeful streak towards the runaway princess.

The first few weeks after Snow White had abandoned the palace, time had seemed to trickle by too slowly, and Regina had found herself mind-numbingly unaware of everything around her, consumed by her thoughts of the first failure of her newfound rule. Persecuted by frustrating despair and pervasive nightmares filled with the blood she hadn’t managed to spill, she had given into madness and mindlessness, prowling the hallways of her home like an omen of death. She had put her most fervent efforts into controlling herself, trying to settle her own feelings and beat her insanity into submission, to fuel her anger into a mission with a purpose rather than let it wander inside her head as an absurd and fruitless compulsion. Months later, she has arranged constant patrols with the sole purpose of locating Snow White, but her temper remains altered, spiked by bouts of irritation at the lack of results in finding the princess.

“Well, my dear,” Regina complains one afternoon to the duke. “She is one fragile little girl and I have an army, shouldn’t I be irritated when everyone is far too useless to even catch a glimpse of her pretty hair?”

The duke doesn’t further push the issue, but rather lets her stew in her thoughts, which seem to only harden when the rains fail to recede and she sees herself trapped within the walls of the palace, the constant howling of a prowling wolf mocking her from the outside. And it must be mocking her, for surely that is what the rest of the kingdom seems to be doing as well – laughing at her expanse, at her madness and her obsession, making Snow White their phantom queen and refusing to accept Regina as their present one. News of Snow’s whereabouts reach her every day from all over the kingdom, claims of sightings that can’t possibly be true coming forth tirelessly and continuously, even as her knights fail to bring the princess before her. The kingdom is helping Snow White, feeding her rumors as a means of distraction, building illusory observations that must surely intend to drive her insane. Regina can’t possibly inspect every corner of her kingdom, even her powers failing to be efficient enough when she can’t uncover any possible truth in the hearsay reaching her ever-attentive ears. Snow White is taunting her, and the kingdom taunts her along with the princess. She has half a mind to ride to every false spot mentioned in the gossip brought to her and burn it to the ground, never mind that such an action may just leave the land barren and destroyed. It may just be what she needs, her and her palace, no kingdom to hate her and praise Snow White, no lands to covet and to make noblemen yearn for her hand.

Regina knows herself to be angry, despairingly so, the source of her discomfort hidden under layers of confusing thoughts. Snow’s survival haunts her, as much as that idiotic letter that she’d placed in the huntsman’s hands does – a letter speaking of sacrifice and dripping forgiveness, contempt for Regina and her plight evident in every word. Snow had even had the gall to address her as _step-mother_ in the missive, a title that she had never spoken to her and that Regina had never truly worn, always more a sister than a mother, however a hateful and twisted one. The thought never fails to make vile rise to her throat, that one last insult that had only been the beginning of Snow’s escape filling her up with the foulest sense of bitterness.

The angrier she grows, the more anxious her thoughts. She paces the halls of the palace, feeling unsettled and caged, drinking more and eating less than she should, restless and unsure of what steps to take next. And more than anything, she grows frustrated, with herself and her feelings, with how elusive happiness and freedom feel when she’d been so sure that they were falling right into her hands. For Snow White might be alive, but she must surely be suffering in her exile while Regina thrives, a queen to a castle that is her own, liberated of a court which scrutiny had made her irresponsibly deranged, freed of a foolish husband and of the duties of feigned personas. And yet, she remains trapped, if this time by her own emotions, but trapped nonetheless.

Perhaps Maleficent had been right when she’d told her that she would never be happy, that such a feeling would forever remain slippery and incomprehensible when she kept looking in all the wrong places. That had been two months ago, and Regina had left her fortress with an angry huff and has refused to visit her since, even when a few nights hidden in Maleficent’s lustful embrace may just be enough to calm her senses, if only for a fleeting moment. Truth be told, their relationship as of late has been pervaded with far more drinking than lovemaking, comfort having left Maleficent’s demeanor in exchange for barbed and pointed taunts hidden under quiet teasing and soothed with rough kisses. Regina suspects that there is more pain between them than they will ever admit to themselves, that their twisted love will never regain the strength it once had, and that their affections will forever be buried under the silence of doomed _might-have-beens_. Then again, maybe Regina is simply incapable of love anymore, and is condemned to drown inside her own hysteria until she manages to wrap her hands around Snow’s thin and fragile neck.

 

* * *

 

On the morning of Snow’s twenty-second birthday, Regina executes a man in her name. It seems oddly appropriate, a ritual sacrifice in the name of the princess that the man had so adamantly protected, refusing to speak of her whereabouts even when tortured. The sight brings no pleasure to Regina’s eyes. She’s harassing her population, her hand being forced into violence when it would be so simple for them to grant her wishes and avoid such wasteful unpleasantness. As long as the kingdom insists on taking Snow’s side, though, every single little helper the princess has gathered will be her ally and Regina’s enemy, and will be made to endure her wrath.

She sits on the spot Leopold had once occupied, feeling aloof and nearly distracted, doing her best efforts to ignore the whimper-like pleads coming from the man about to be executed, as well as the confounding blend of anguish and excitement coming from the small crowd of peasants that has gathered to watch the spectacle. She finds herself thinking of the first execution she’d witnessed, nineteen years old and standing behind the king, apprehension gripping her chest. Leopold had never been a man too fond of death and dungeons, but even the kindest of rulers were obligated to such unpleasant matters on occasion, particularly in the case of well-known thieves and murderers. Leopold’s rage and penchant for execution had always been at its highest when facing men known to kidnap and abuse women, a fact that Regina finds hilariously ironic these days, but that had made her sick to her stomach when she’d been young and trapped within Leopold’s grasp and wishes, a man who thought that a wedding ceremony and a crown on her head somehow separated him from the same men he despised so.

Leopold had favored hanging for the worst of criminals, but Regina had always thought the method entirely too disagreeable. She remembers men choking on their own breath, clawing at their neck, desperate for a quick death that wouldn’t come, and the memory collides with her own entrapment, with the breathlessness of knowing herself as futilely hopeless as those condemned. She is far from those times now, though, and so she rejects Leopold’s old methods entirely and chooses arrows instead, a prospect that seems to be making her newly appointed executioner entirely too gleeful for her tastes. Then again, Ralf has always been too much of a brute, and she would rather he exploited his bloodlust within her royal commands than outside of them. She gives the signal and the arrows fly, proving the method to be as disgustingly unpalatable as any other, the sight of fresh blood oozing out of a boneless body settling sour nausea in her stomach.

She stands quickly, an air of forlornness about her as her steps fail to follow her initial hastiness and meander slowly under what suddenly feels like a perfectly absurd and heavy dress. She’d wanted to appear regal and assured, unaffected by the proceedings, but her choice of a weighty gown instead of more comfortable riding clothes makes her feel slightly silly at this moment, like a little girl playing at ruling to the best of her abilities, clad in a costume that fits her awkwardly at best. Her whole skin itches, the rotten scent surrounding the scene about her making her inordinately uncomfortable, but no matter how desperately she wills her feet to walk her away from the spot as swiftly as possible, they refuse to cooperate. She traipses with lazy clumsiness instead, halting her movements altogether when a voice rises from within the crowd, rough yet strong.

“Witch!” It yells, ringing loud and clear for a few long and silent seconds before it becomes a chorus, what had felt like a small gathering before now managing to sound like a roaring beast when chanting what they must consider the worst of insults.

Regina watches the actions that follow as if hypnotized, the quick movements of her guards already practiced as they draw their blades out, threatening figures clad in black fashioning themselves as powerful giants when heckling a few underfed and raggedy-looking peasants. The crowd, seemingly incensed by the confidence of unity, continues their chorusing despite the heavy swords being brought before them, their enthusiasm only dwindling to a stop when two of her guards find the initiator of the protest and bring him to his knees none too gently, a resoundingly hard kick to the back of his legs propelling him forward and towards the rough ground. The man grunts once he’s down, growling and baring his teeth like a rabid beast as the guards force him to stay down, broad and weighty hands holding his shoulders and arms in what Regina can only guess is a painful grip.

“Apologize to your queen!” One of her guards bellows, the steel of his sword glinting against the pale sun as the most tangible of threats.

The man growls yet again, prompting her guard to raise his blade in warning, ready to strike. The thought of watching the man’s blood tainting the sand is tempting but for a second before it manages to make Regina’s stomach churn instead, and so she is quick to precisely command, “Stop.”

Her voice is low yet demanding, and her order is followed with keenly rapid movements from everyone around her, her guards lowering their weapons as the crowd of peasants raises their eyes towards her. Silence reigns then for a tense second, and Regina breathes out slow and even, meeting gazes steadily fixated on her and brimming with equal parts fear and expectation, perhaps waiting for the retaliation that has apparently come to be expected from her irritable temper. And Regina, who has been feeling exhaustedly uncomfortable, rises to the presented challenge with a smirk, throwing her shoulders back as if they were free of burdens, and pacing with short and ceremoniously precise steps before the kneeling figure, dragging after her the dress that minutes before had felt too heavy and that suddenly seems to her like the proper armor to face her enemies. She chuckles, the sound short and calculated, and watches with delight as the peals of her laughter do nothing to draw away the fear from her audience’s eyes.

“Now gentlemen, let’s not be too harsh or hasty in our judgment,” she intones, preening under the given attention, enjoying the prowling that comes easily to her now, the way men and women alike look like nothing but easily caged prey. “The man speaks nothing but the truth, after all,” she continues. “I _am_ a witch.”

Regina moves forward then, and she realizes that while scrutiny such as this has been nothing but cumbersome in the past, in this moment it feels delightful, a show of the powerful grip she holds over everyone around her, guards and peasants alike. She stops once she’s before the kneeling man and lowers herself towards him with purpose, laying the pads of her fingers delicately over a roughened and yet surprisingly attractive tanned cheek. The man flinches under her touch, if because of the coldness of her hand or the simple act itself she doesn’t know, but Regina’s smirk widens as she moves her fingers down his skin, her touch lingering and bizarrely sensual as she trails down a thick neck and sharp collarbones, over the ridges of an old scar that hides its end away under a coarse shirt, across a chest heaving with much too rapid breathing. By the time Regina’s hand is resting squarely against the man’s breastbone, he’s trembling before her. Regina bites at her lower lip, a rush of excitement running up her spine and following the path of her magic as it rushes towards her hand. She pushes in, both her hand and her intent firm, and the man gasps as she pulls backwards, a bright red heart resting heavily against her palm. She stretches slowly, her prize held with nimble fingers and her eyes focused on it even as her whole being remains aware of the people around her, of their held breaths and the tangible strain of the air enveloping them all, as if they were a single being standing before Regina.

The shine and weight resting in her palm captivates her, lures her beyond any logical or comprehensible thought. She squeezes, though, finding herself incapable of a different action, and listens to the man before her groan in pain, the sound quickly turning into a disturbingly pathetic sob as his body sags forward, this time falling to the ground of its own volition. There is a plea for the man’s life that falls on deaf ears, no more important to Regina than the sound of the rustling wind or of birds and bugs chirping around them. She stops herself before the heart is crushed, however, contemplating the nearly desperate desire growing within her to do away with it, to waste life unknown to her on a whim; she would certainly be doing little else than confirm the rumors already being spread about her, tainting the tongues of a kingdom that refuses to love her and that seems adamant on labeling her an unfeeling nightmare incapable of the smallest of mercies. The air around them already smells of blood, though, the crumpled body of the tribute paid for Snow’s betrayal still present among them, and so Regina chooses to cease her vengeful thoughts, curling her lips into a distasteful scowl even as she moves back down and plunges the heart back inside the man’s chest, looking then at her own fingers as if they’ve been holding something repulsive.

Regina raises her eyes to the crowd and finds uncanny surprise staring back at her, incredulity so obvious that it rises her temper, angers her beyond belief as she sees her mercy being regarded as an act so bewildering that nobody dares break the silence. Her hands curl beside her, and she finds her fingers unwittingly fisting around the heavy winter fabric of her skirt, knowing that she will do something far worse than crush one undeserving heart if she so much as lets go.

“Your Majesty?” One of her guards prods after a long moment of silence.

Regina turns her eyes towards him, sees the glinting of his blade and the unspoken question in his eyes – were she to order such a thing, her guards would have no qualms about slaughtering the people before her, and the unwavering loyalty of the thought shakes her awake from her stupor, and from her own and sudden bloodlust. She shakes her head at her guard, smiling confidently and willing the tension away from her limbs until she feels secure enough to drop the tight grip on her clothes. Then, she makes a hasty decision, a single thread of hope burning within her as she chooses to ply her subjects with mercy, even if it appears to amaze them so.

“I am a witch,” she says, repeating her earlier statement with tremulous candor, with a smile that she used to bestow upon noblemen when she wanted to be regarded as no more than a sweet child with nothing to hide. Then, she fills her voice with steel, with quiet demand and barely contained fire, and states, “However, I am your queen, and you are my people; mine to punish and yet mine to take care of as well.” She pauses, breathes in, and commands, “Claude, the day has seen enough unfortunate events as it is; have bread and ale distributed, and allow the family to bury their dead.”

 

* * *

 

Whatever mighty feat Regina had hoped to accomplish with her outward show of mercy does absolutely nothing, the kingdom continuing to overflow with news of its tyrannical new ruler and the seemingly unfair persecution of Princess Snow White, heroically turned bandit as her only means of survival. Tongues ran faster than Regina’s efforts can ever hope to do, and it seems that no matter her actions, the people of her kingdom have already turned Snow into a legendary figure, and her into the deathliest of menaces. Her witchcraft makes her too unusual, too different, and much like her foreign origins had back when she had first arrived at the palace, something to be feared and disliked with fundamental foundation, and with very little questioning.

Consumed by anger and her inexplicable plight, Regina wavers between peaceful gestures and temper tantrums, her hand as quick to condemn as it is to mollify, her temperament ever-changing and unstable, and her heart hardening after every rejection received. She fails to understand the steadfastly pervasive character of the disapproval of her persona, the inescapable truth of the exclusion that has imbued every single aspect of her life since her first memory. Unwittingly, she thinks of mother, of hard words and harder punishments, of the sharp pain of such simple statements as _you look almost beautiful tonight._ It seems to her that she is condemned to be an eternal _almost,_ never quite what she must be unless she betrays her own character and puts on a mask to become anyone but who she truly is.

Loneliness apprehends her, curling around her throat and settling tight behind her breastbone like something living, an oppressive creature that she doesn’t know how to even begin to get rid of. The palace around her feels oppressive, the silence that she had craved with such desperation just months before becoming an ardent and heavy condemnation of her character. It feels to her as if Snow’s spirit still inhabits these walls, teasing her from crevices and corners, shouting at her that despite her best efforts, these rooms and hallways don’t belong to her. After all, it is almost natural for Regina to be reminded of the princess’ presence, of the walks they had shared through the garden, the afternoons spent under her apple tree, the meals shared within her bedchambers, the long and freeing rides around the green and wide Royal State. Forlornly, she realizes that she must be going mad, for surely her feeling speak of persecution and unhinged senses; she doesn’t dare think, not for a second, that she may just _miss_ Snow White.

Nonetheless, a sunny spring day that finds Regina hiding away from the light, pacing dark hallways rather than taking a more pleasant stroll through the gardens that so remind her of Snow’s annoyingly mindless prattling, she makes her way with heavy and determined steps towards Snow’s old bedchambers. She feels untethered, nervous for no reason at all in that way that has consumed her as of late, and she scowls once she’s standing before the big white doors of the rooms, the brass doorknob a silent taunt. She has adamantly refused to visit the princess’ chambers since she left the palace, and she wonders at her own cowardice, at being so dedicated to her persecution and death, and yet so afraid of the ghost she has left behind. Today, though, with a huff and a roll of her eyes, she bluffs her way through a wave of impulsive bravado and walks inside the dreaded room, frowning in disapproval when bright light assaults her eyes with piercing precision. She had expected the abode to be bathed in darkness, but it is brightly lit instead, the balcony doors open wide and the heavy white drapes billowing softly at the touch of the cool spring breeze from outside, and for a moment, Regina fools herself into thinking that the chambers haven’t been abandoned at all, and that these walls are simply waiting patiently for their occupant to come back from a too long trip. She wonders, briefly, if Snow White, wherever she is, has any walls at all.

Regina walks towards the bed with slow steps, the rustling of her dress against the floor accompanying her movement and only stopping once she sits down, the mattress under her sinking under her weight and making her want to lie down and simply sleep for a very long while. Sleep has certainly been eluding her as of late, her dreams easily turning into nightmares tinged in blood red and making her wake up restless, clawing at her own neck and chest as if fighting off some invisible creature. She doesn’t give into tiredness, though, instead simply pressing her hand to the bedspread under her and stretching her fingers out, her skin an odd contrast against the lilac fabric. She had had this bedspread made herself as a gift for Snow after she’d recovered from her sickness, and after ordering every single piece of linen in the palace burnt and replaced. Snow had begged her to allow her to keep her old white quilted coverlet, which she had explained was a family heirloom from her mother’s side, but Regina had been adamant in ridding the palace of disease at the time, and had ignored every plea, only to make it up to her later with the beautifully woven fabric she now sits on.

The bedspread is far from the only sign of her constructed relationship with Snow that lingers inside the room, her wardrobe filled with dresses of Regina’s choosing, her vanity holding perfumes given as small gifts, and that tiny and crooked little doll Regina had knitted and stuffed herself so many years ago resting on the bedside table, as a memento of false affection. It all feels like a provocation, relentless torment of a past that Regina hasn’t managed to rid herself of.

And perhaps – perhaps that is the problem. The king, the court and the princess are gone, and yet Regina dwells in the memories of them, rootless between the walls of this palace that while lawfully hers, still remains imprinted with the spirit of her unwanted family. She finds her own image in Snow’s full length mirror, a figure clad in black sitting among white and pink fabrics, inadequate and uncomfortable even in a space that belongs to her by right, and she wonders if the disquiet of the kingdom stems from the same origin, if her mere appearance clashes so much with what they have been taught to expect from their monarchs that they can’t help but repudiate her. Should she make herself to be what they want her to be, then? Should she, after all, give up her endeavors and true wishes, don lighter dresses the way she had when she was younger, smile with a sweetness that she doesn’t possess, make herself smaller, candid with feelings that aren’t her own? The simple thought of it makes her bristle, and she rejects it with abrupt fury; she has been violated enough in her life, her heart, body and soul laid down as sacrifice for a life that she hadn’t ever asked for, and she won’t give herself up yet again, not now that she wields power to command at her will.

“What is it about me that repulses the people so?” Regina questions one mildly hot morning as she leans against the railings that overlook the ever-expanding training range of her troops. “Is the answer as simple as fear of my magic? Or perhaps that I’m a woman?”

She wrinkles her nose as she asks this, the thought discomfortingly frustrating. She had discarded such an idea early on her reign, considering that people’s claims are not for a man but for the princess, but lately she can’t help but think that her female condition is a hindrance to her endeavors. She can’t help but think that no man would ever see such opposition weighted against him, and she knows for certain that a king wouldn’t be pervasively advised to find a suitable consort. The members of her council have only just stopped badgering her about the necessity of a secure marriage, after all, and only because she’d threatened to have their tongues cut off if they so much as thought of mentioning the possibility ever again.

This morning, it’s two members of said council that are recipient to her inquiry, anxious even if hidden under a sheen of cold composure, which she has struggled to construct as of late in an effort to calm her own senses. She finds that it leaves her numb rather than nervous, and that neither response manages to do anything to quench her bouts of aimless gloom, or the purposelessness of her impulsive anger. However, today she hides behind composed control, hoping to discern whether there is any action she may take that may provide her with something akin to acceptance from her people, or whether she should give up completely. She can’t help but think that mother would have preferred banishment to a compromise of her sternness, but then, for all of mother’s achievements in life, she’d never found herself in Regina’s ruling position.

Her Military Advisor, resting by her against the railing and twirling his funny-looking moustache between nervous fingers in that way Regina has already gotten used to but that used to annoy her to no end, doesn’t pay her much attention, distracted as he is by the sight before them. They’re witnessing the training of her troops, an activity that Regina has found herself uncommonly fond of as of late, and which her men seem to equally appreciate. For all that the kingdom seems adamant in hating her, her army’s loyalty is solid and unwavering, her men secure in the knowledge that their queen favors them and finds effortless pleasure in taking care of them. Regina keeps her army well fed and clothed, as well as sheltered and decently entertained, wenches and ale never missing for those who wish to enjoy such mundane luxuries. She is also consistent in her care for her knight’s families, and pays them fairly, enough that having to put up with her bouts of angry irritation as well as with the dangers of their office seems like a small price to pay. Her men _like her,_ they enjoy posing and preening before her whenever she decides to grace their trainings, and Regina finds their childlike devotion infinitely satisfactory. She has even come to enjoy the sound of wooden swords clashing together, and she’s certainly shallow enough that the sight of sweaty muscled arms awakens her most primitive needs.

It is Duchess Adela who answers her question instead, hands behind her back as she herself studies the men before them, if with enjoyment or disgust Regina can’t tell; the woman is so astonishingly inexpressive that Regina gave up on trying to read her features long ago.

“It’s not that you’re a woman, Your Majesty,” the duchess says. “It’s the kind of woman you are.”

Regina lifts her eyebrows at that, looking straight into the woman’s eyes with honest curiosity in her gaze. “Oh? Do enlighten me, duchess.”

The duchess falters, a small twitch on her eyebrow revealing how uncomfortable she truly is at being scrutinized so by Regina. Regina has always appreciated the woman’s blunt honesty, though, even when it comes with a side of prudish judgment in most occasions.

“Go ahead then,” she prompts. “You are one of my trusted advisors, so advise me.”

At that, the duchess raises a single eyebrow, and Regina scowls at the implied reference of such a gesture, for surely she must be thinking of Regina’s tantrum just a fortnight ago, which had only ended once she’d thrown the Master of Ships into the dungeons. The man had lewdly suggested that a good tumble on an experienced bed was the proper cure for Regina’s irascibility, promptly offering himself up for the task, and as far as Regina’s concerned, she’d been lucky he hadn’t lost the hand that he’d purposefully rested on her hip. He’d apologized after a week of imprisonment, and Regina had been gracious enough to let him go and to simply stripe him of his position, so the duchess’ discomfort seems uncalled for. Perhaps, she is simply worried about the dwindling nature of the council, considering that the Royal Doctor had left her as soon as it had been appropriate after Leopold’s death, and that they had buried the Treasury Master on a dreary and wintry afternoon not three months prior. Regina had felt that particular loss acutely, even if the ninety-two year old man had lived far longer than expected; he’d always been considerate in his treatment of Regina, and impossibly thankful for the care she’d freely bestowed upon him.

“Duchess,” Regina says, careful in her request even when walking on eggshells never fails to make her angry. “Be honest with me; I’m fairly certain your concise bluntness might be exactly what I need.”

Pursing her lips, the duchess finally speaks, saying, “You’re inappropriate, Your Majesty.”

Regina scoffs, unbridled annoyance sipping into her response. “Don’t insult me, dear. Propriety is but a construct of men to keep women enslaved to their wills – a construct that you yourself have been victim of, so spare me the lecture. It is neither my cleavage nor my manners what makes me disagreeable.”

“Perhaps not, Your Majesty, but–” Duchess Adela stops her own speech just so she can pointedly stare at Regina for a moment. When that fails to grant her any reaction, she sighs, as if dealing with a tiresome child.

“Duchess?”

The duchess is saved from further prodding by a messenger arriving with a thick stack of missives for Regina, which she receives with a small yet tired sigh, and with a hint of thankfulness as well. At the moment, she can’t fathom what sort of desperate thought made her question Duchess Adela on matters regarding her demeanor, for however modern she is in her views of the intellect of women, she also has a collection of very strict rules built into her thoughts on what a woman is meant to be, a collection which Regina seemingly defies with every single one of her actions and decisions. Duchess Adela had certainly been adamant on calling Regina’s decision of keeping the court away from the palace a _most atrocious and dangerous mistake,_ and Regina’s most recent choice to turn the lower levels of the palace into luxury barracks for her troops, sacrificing guestrooms in exchange, definitely hadn’t sat well with her. She had even shown utmost disapproval when Regina had simply ignored her complaints and busied herself instead with plans to rebuild the stables, and had refused to attend any meeting regarding Regina’s purchase of a new herd of powerful steeds. _They’re your soldiers, not your children,_ she’d said, and Regina had responded with a genuine peal of laughter.

Turning her attention to her letters, Regina dismisses most of them for a later reading, while carefully inspecting one sent from one of the local outposts of the kingdom, signed by one of her men, and which claims truthful sightings of Snow White. The fact that the tale has the princess cavorting with a well-known pack of werewolves only makes Regina despair, thinking of the impossibility of it all, and of how she will order further investigation on the matter in any case. She hardly knows who to trust these days, but she needs to put her faith somewhere, so it might as well be her soldiers rather than peasants wanting to protect the princess and distract her attentions.

One of the missives she recognizes immediately as one from King George’s, and she burns it instantly, not even managing a speck of anger when she does, and rather enjoying the tiny jump the duchess can’t help at the sight of her magic. Her plight in refusing marriage had certainly not been aided by George, and the fact that he had taken to sending her a weekly proposal in the form of letters so mawkishly banal that he can’t possibly be their author – flower arrangements, too, but that had stopped a couple of months back, probably because George had learnt that they had been meeting Regina’s fireballs before ever making it anywhere near her bedchambers. Regina wants to find a shred of amused irony in his insistence, thinking back to the seventeen year old girl she had once been and that he had refused to marry, but all his perseverance conjures in her is contemptuous bitterness.

Fleetingly, a stray thought of the late Queen Catherine assaults her, making her grimace involuntarily. She has done her best not to bring that unpleasant ordeal back to the forefront of her mind, but she can’t help but think that George may have done the three of them a service had he conceded to the queen’s wish to marry him all those years ago. After all, he would have obtained a willing wife – a rarity if Regina has known any among the nobility – and Queen Catherine might still be alive. Regina bites her lower lip, shaking unwanted thoughts away as she looks at the pile of ashes George’s letter has left on her palm, and after letting them drift towards the ground, she reaches up and for the chain around her neck holding Daniel’s ring, only to find that she’s not wearing it today. Accordingly, she forces herself to remember that she hasn’t been wearing the ring at all for what amounts to nearly a year, since Leopold was put to the ground and Snow was cast out from the palace.

There is very little of herself and of her feelings that Regina understands as of late, the hazy fog settled about her heart and seemingly griping tightly to her thoughts and senses not allowing her to discern the true reasons behind her impetuous and offhand behavior. Now, though, she realizes how very little thought she has spared for Daniel in a very long time, or even to the scar stretching across her belly, the emptiness of which had caused such sorrow, however dulled by time. And yet, her persecution of Snow hasn’t been far away from her thoughts at any moment, even while the reasons for it are ostensibly hiding away under relentlessly opaque compulsions. She fears obsession, and wonders if what truly repulses her kingdom is not her abrupt harshness, or whatever sign of improper behavior they see in her, but the emptiness that must surely be conquering the depths or her eyes, where even her losses have been replaced by sheer bloodlust blooming from unattained vengeance. Suddenly and with unforeseen fervor, Regina wishes for a long afternoon spent under her apple tree and in the company of father, wishes for his smooth voice speaking tales of the past, tethering her to whatever roots remain within her heart.

“Are there any news regarding the Summer Festival?”

The Military Advisor’s voice cuts through Regina’s cloudiness with the precision of a sharp knife, and effectively brings her back to the present, the sound of yells and wooden swords invading senses previously blurred by inexistent yet rushing noise. Regina blinks owlishly, staring at the now straightened up man, his attention away from training soldiers and fixed upon her instead. His gaze, which had seemed nothing but harsh and stony to a younger Regina, is trained on her with something akin to worry, which Regina dispels with a tight smile and a waving hand.

“None at all,” she answers. “Do you still think I should attend?”

“Most definitely, Your Majesty,” he says, disregarding the huff the duchess produces next to them, her last ditch attempt at wining a discussion that they’ve been repeating tirelessly for a little over a month now.

Duchess Adela shared the opinion Leopold had adamantly held on the festivities that marked the end of the summer, and that had kept both her and Snow trapped within the palace every single year. Heaven’s knows there must be hardly anything too disgraceful about a night spent at the closest village filled with harmless entertainment, music, food and wine, but Leopold had always claimed it to be an unsuitable celebration for ladies such as them. It had always bothered Regina, not so much because of whatever allure the festival itself held, but simply because she was made to stay behind, and Baroness Irene never failed to attend and come back filled with outlandishly outrageous stories. During the last few years, Regina had even rebelled by organizing a small celebration herself at the palace, a bonfire for the ladies, children and servants trapped within their walls where they could share wine, chocolate and stories. Snow had always loved it, and she had reverently sat by Regina as they stayed up all night looking up at the cloudless and starry sky, enjoying the last drafts of heat before the dull browns of fall fell upon them.

This year, Regina had of course taken care of the organizing of the festivities, and had splurged in expensive drinks and all sorts of foods, both local and foreign, as well as promising a handsome price for the winners of the customary archery contest. Attending hadn’t actually been much of a priority for her, particularly when she thinks of the possibility of an awkward reunion with Baroness Irene, but the Military Advisor had spoken of the kind of spirit of unity such celebrations settled upon the population, and how seeing her in a somewhat relaxed atmosphere might just do her some good. It had certainly been more help than the duchess had procured with her stern advise, and Regina was inclined to follow it.

“Will it be secure, though?” The duchess questions then, lifting a pointed eyebrow at both of them.

Regina twists her lips until she’s sneering with barely contained fury. Surely the duchess is thinking of the last two attempts made on Regina’s life, the second of which had been close enough to be certainly preoccupying; Regina’s left thigh still sported a yellowish bruise as a result.

“We shall double the guards,” she answers, right before turning her eyes back towards her soldiers, now engaged in some elaborate sort of choreography involving spears and plenty of disproportionate grunting. “Surely the men are ready to protect their queen?”

The Military Advisor looks at her with something of a twinkle in his eye, right before his eyes fall upon the soldiers yet again. There had always been very little gossip regarding the man, but Regina would bet an arm and a half that his lack of wife, which the court had so enjoyed chattering about, had a lot more to do with his enjoyment of the attributes of the male body, than with whatever tale of a tragic past noblemen had made up for him.

Regina smiles at the thought, and mischievously murmurs, “They make for quite a lovely sight, wouldn’t you agree?” There is no answer, and Regina is quick to fill the silence with the acquiescence that the Military Advisor expects, stating, “I shall attend the Festival, if only to witness what my late husband kept me from all these years.”

After all, even if purposeless and confounded, Regina can at least stomp her little feet on the memory of her bumbling jailor, and claim the freedom that belongs to her.

 

* * *

 

The last days of summer crawl with awkward slowness, the humid heat uncomfortable and making Regina wish for soft breeze that refuses to come. It’s rare for the kingdom to be this hot, summers usually offering barely a few hours of too much sun at midday but very little else, pleasant gusts of light wind accompanying the rest of the long daylights, and the nights conquered by a sigh of mild cold. The unnatural heat makes the days outside disagreeable enough that Regina wishes she could search for the coldness of the hidden chambers of the palace, ruing the decision of renovating the décor during the warmer seasons. As it is, the palace is brimming with workers hammering away at the walls, lifting dust up in the air and creating aggravating amounts of migraine-inducing noise, making it impossible for her to even hold a calm council meeting without wanting to take a hammer herself and push it into the pompously self-appointed Master of Renovation’s skull.

Despite the maddening annoyance of the palace’s transformation, Regina bites her tongue and says nothing even when she finds herself frustrated with how long the work is taking, considering that the frenzy behind the rebuilding is nothing but hers. The day after she had foolishly allowed herself to walk into Snow White’s bedchambers, and after brooding all night over unwanted memories, she had made up her mind to rid the palace of the princess’ spirit, and had taken to it in the most literal way possible, ordering immediately for the best craftsmen of the kingdom to design her new interiors, to surround her in rooms to better suit her mood and persona. The work had started almost immediately, and the palace has begun to shape itself anew with darker colors and richer marbles, with larger common rooms to make breathing within them easier, and Regina slowly realizes that, despite the discomfort, the changes not only make her smile, but accommodate the exterior of the palace far better. The palace had looked so bafflingly frightening to her younger self, hard and somber spikes cropping up outlandishly in the middle of the green forests, that it seems natural to her that the insides should match, cool and dark materials conquering spots previously filled with light fabrics and sturdy furniture.

Regina knows the palace had been built by Leopold’s father as a gift for his first wife, the legendarily beautiful Queen Alina, who had been brutally murdered at the short age of nineteen, a band of bloodthirsty bandits attacking her carriage on a trip to a neighboring kingdom. There is a portrait of her in Leopold’s old offices, small and purposefully kept dusty, hanging right next to a horrendous and enormous one of Queen Georgiana, second wife to the king and Leopold’s mother – looking at it, Regina had always been grateful that the beaky-looking old crow that mother had deemed a _shrewish penny-pincher with the temperament of a gorgon_ had been long dead by the time she had become Leopold’s wife. Those portraits no longer exist, though, having been the first victims of Regina’s determination, and having fallen prey to the unrelenting power of bright orange flames. Duchess Adela had put up a token protest about Regina’s seemingly narrow-minded tenacity to do away with the history of her family, but she had deflated as soon as Regina had glared at her, fury written in every crevice of her face. There had never been any family of hers hanging in the shape of beautiful canvases on these walls, after all, her own heritage hidden away and considered lowly, and so it had been with hypnotic satisfaction that she’d watched the flames consume Leopold’s past. Every single portrait had been burnt, then, Leopold’s, Eva’s and Snow’s as well as her own, for she’d hated the sullen and lost look of her younger self, insecure, scared and so impossibly sad that her heart had ached for the girl she had once been. In their stead, Regina plans to adorn her new walls with ornate mirrors, giving thus a pathway for her trapped genie to follow.

Being almost forced to spend her days outside, Regina does her best at ignoring the heat, and finds herself strolling peacefully about her gardens, or riding atop _Rocinante_ with surprising glee. She even calls for a meeting of the council outside, treating its members to a late breakfast of fresh fruits and light breads under the shadow of her apple tree, where the discussion about the upcoming Summer Festival feels almost like a conversation among friends. It certainly does wonders for the new Treasury Master, a too young looking lad that had been the former Master’s most accomplished protégé and who can’t help but stutter whenever he’s in Regina’s presence, his beautiful dark eyes always firmly fixed on his own feet. After such a reunion, he dares look up at Regina and smile, his stammering _Yo-Your Ma-Majesty_ managing to be charming enough to make her smile in return, and feel a long-forgotten bloom of content.

It’s a few strange days, spreading a little over a fortnight before the festival is to be held, and Regina waddles through them if not completely at peace, then certainly with a bizarre sense of wonder, and a surprisingly pleasing lack of angry tantrums. She finds herself struck by the oddest of desires, and she gives into them artlessly, owing to the fact that they don’t stem from anger, and are rather simple and undemanding. Therefore, she finds herself taking on the task of brushing _Rocinante’s_ hair, something which she has shied away for as long as Daniel has been gone, even the thought of it a too painful reminder of long hours spent at the stable between words and kisses. Sweet yearning settled high on her chest, the memories of Daniel that Regina has spent so much time steadfastly burying far back into her heart flourish back inside her, prevalent but not invasive, tingling under her breastbone with quiet sorrow rather than burning with abrasive anger. She finds that the more her memories of Daniel settle about her heart with protective gentleness, the further back into her head her need for Snow White’s death recedes, as if every new stone reshaping the palace about her is indeed pushing the princess’ spirit away.

News of the princess’ whereabouts keep coming, however, relentlessly maddening in their inaccuracy and foolishness, but where Regina found herself wanting to persecute her through every corner of the kingdom before, now her mind brims with mere curiosity. She catches sight of her, once, her mirror giving her an image of her trudging through the forest and accompanied by a beautiful girl in a red cape, a tight smile on features sharper than Regina remembers, and she allows herself but a moment of wonder and pulsing anger before she erases the sight. She finds herself thinking, wistful hope teasing at the corners of her mind, that perhaps it wouldn’t be so terrible were Snow to manage an escape, and to simply allow herself to be forgotten while Regina flourishes instead. Would the kingdom oblige her with such a thing; would they fold to Regina’s wishes were Snow’s memory to vanish with time? Regina both cherishes and hates the hope grabbing ahold of her chest, tearing ruthlessly at her angry thoughts. She has lived for so long in anger, has wanted to rain destruction about her with such cold focus that suddenly holding onto something as feeble and hope seems ill-advised. _And yet._

Perhaps it’s the summer, or perhaps she’s becoming unhinged as much as Leopold did during his last days, the placidness of lunacy taking ahold of her mind in the same manner that it did her husband’s. It surely must be, for Regina finds herself craving innocence lost, and tethering herself with joys of the past. Thus, she begins spending her lunches with father, exhorting him into telling old stories in his native language, as if she can somehow make up for the rejection of her heritage she had been forced into early into her marriage and introduction to court.

“Tell me about your home, daddy,” she requests more and more, the softness of her spirit nostalgically craving father’s kingdom, which she has never seen, but that belongs to her if only in the shape of ancient spirits.

These lunches are almost perpetually invaded by the howling of a wolf that Regina almost dares consider a house pet, the vexatious thing persistent enough in its efforts to disrupt her that Regina has even began to consider freeing the huntsman from his prison and returning his traitorous heart to his chest as a sign of true and honest mercy. It may grant her some peace, but the thought curls something dark around her chest, mercy on one who chose Snow over her something she feels incapable of, whatever hope she harbors dying at the very idea. She may be losing her mind, after all, but she isn’t unwise enough that she doesn’t know that all her hopes may be yet answered with anger, that her next visit to the people of her kingdom may leave her angry and destroyed still. Perhaps there will be a time to free the huntsman, but for now, the three of them, wolf, huntsman and queen, will live together under constant torture of each other, the wolf lacking a companion, the huntsman his heart, and the queen her peace.

“I never understood your need for them to like you, my darling,” Maleficent tells her during a quiet night, Regina’s body lackadaisical enough after surrendering under the onslaught of the witch’s hands and mouth that she doesn’t even mind the mocking tone hidden within Maleficent’s words.

Rumpelstiltskin had said as much once, too, taunting her for desperately seeking acceptance from a court and a kingdom whose relentless dismissal and repudiation had done nothing but hurt her, had made her waver in her most natural and true instincts that told her to kill that which bothered her so. And perhaps it had been such words coming from the imp what somehow stopped her, for surely advice coming from his pungent desires could bring nothing but pain. Perhaps, though, it came from the reality of being bruised by such rejection, for as long as there were wounds pulsing beneath her skin, Regina had proof that her heart was capable of beating with something other than fury – and how foolish of her, that feeling pain is somehow better than feeling nothing at all. Mother would certainly be appalled at such an idea, but then again, knowing Regina’s heart had never been one of mother’s virtues.

Such words she shares with Maleficent, even as Maleficent busies herself with pouring wine at the small of her back, intent of licking it away so clear that Regina doesn’t even need to look at her to imagine the predatory glint in her blue eyes with near perfection. Maleficent’s tongue does indeed descend upon her, and Regina whimpers imperceptibly, her senses almost completely gone after what had been a cheerfully enthusiastic reunion. She’d come seeking comfort between Maleficent’s arms after a too lengthy separation, and the witch had allowed herself to be plied with an offer of marzipan, sweet currant wine and Regina appearing on her bed without a stitch of clothing on her. What had followed had been frustratingly teasing yet fiercely passionate hours where Regina’s thoughts had pleasantly abandoned her, the luscious touch of Maleficent’s nails on the inside of her thighs prying her legs apart impossibly thrilling and deliciously mind-numbing, her sex responding to Maleficent’s tongue with the familiarity of a lover well-known and never surpassed.

Now, with a fire warming up the room and Maleficent hovering above her still, hands cold against the skin of Regina’s back, she can do little more than sigh and fight the sleepiness that insists on pulling her eyelids close. She would let them, too, considering she hasn’t been this relaxed in what feels like decades, if not for her determination to soak up as much of Maleficent’s smooth touch as possible. Her relationship with Maleficent has been nothing if not precarious for the past few months, old wounds and unspoken truths pushing them apart with single-minded tenacity, their refusal to acknowledge their mutual losses creating barriers of hasty violence between them. They’re both jagged and difficult, too much alike sometimes, and Regina’s proposal of Maleficent coming to live at the palace with her a few months back had been received with hurtful disdain, and had kept them apart, each of them firmly settled in their stubbornness. Had Regina not pushed Maleficent away all those years ago, had she not sacrificed whatever crooked form of love they’d shared in the name of vengeance and power, such request may have been received with joy. It’s been too long, though, and what remains between them is but remnants of what they once shared, romance doomed and reshaped into what Regina hopes is honest friendship, even if as twisted as their love had once been, with their proclivity for mutual hurtful teasing and for sharing a bed with passionate zeal.

Regina hums when Maleficent draws closer to her, resting her weight by her so she can press a small, dry kiss against her shoulder blade. Maleficent’s hair falls to her skin, tickles at the dip of her spine, and Regina smiles drowsily at the softness of her touches.

“You’re too thin,” Maleficent murmurs against her neck, pushing her hair away so she can nuzzle her nose there, press another kiss.

Regina says nothing, ignoring the statement with stubborn conviction, pressing his eyes tightly closed and pursing her lips for a moment. Maleficent is right, that much Regina can admit, but she refuses to give much thought to the matter. She’s doing better, anyway, having lunch with father and eating properly, even if mustering the desire to do so escapes her from time to time. She has stopped her worst habits, at least, which had pushed her into a spiral of decadence as of late, her days seeing her brooding, drinking and feeding herself with little else than chocolates, filling herself up with sugary gooiness that inevitably ended up making her sick. She thinks she may have been punishing herself for something, even if she’s not particularly sure which sins she is trying to make up for anymore.

Maleficent doesn’t pursue the issue, allowing her silence and kissing her instead, her lips now humid as they find the small of her back, sticky with wine and sensitive to the touch. She bites at the skin there, nibbling and pulling at Regina’s flesh until she groans, wetness creeping between her legs.

“So you _are_ awake,” Maleficent whispers, amusement laced in every syllable and a clear smile on the lips she’s still pressing against Regina’s skin.

Her hand rests now on the globe of her ass, kneading softly at the flesh there, and Regina would allow her to continue her path downwards and between her legs if only she wasn’t a little sore still. She moves instead, grumbling as she disengages her heavy limbs so she can roll on her back and prop herself against the pillows, which may have once been fluffy but now barely hold her up. She looks at Maleficent from her new angle, tilting her head to the side as if appraising her and catching her lower lip between her teeth. She’s wonderfully tired, but Maleficent is naked before her, and her breasts, flopping carelessly as she moves are almost too much of a temptation. She leans forward, intent clear in her gaze, and Maleficent must surely be feeling playful, since she denies her the pleasure and simply leaves the bed, graceful limbs slow like molasses, and predatory glint to her smile. Regina groans, tumbling back against the pillows even as she watches Maleficent’s retreating back as she goes to fetch them both drinks. Regina already feels woozy as it is, the two bottles of wine they had shared not too long ago still swimming inside her head, but she’s so warm and content that she may just accept whatever drink Maleficent offers. They’d shared fruit as well, so the drinks won’t be falling on an empty stomach at least.

Regina turns onto her side, eyeing a coverlet that had been victim to their frenzy and lays rumpled on the floor with mild interest. It’s not particularly cold, though, and Regina hasn’t felt this lazy in ages, so she turns her attention away from the raggedy fabric to look at Maleficent instead, shamelessly eyeing her figure, the shape of her wide back as it thins into her waist, the round cheeks of her bottom, the miles and miles of impossibly long legs, all that skin on display just for her. She watches her move, the precision of a deathly beast never leaving even the smallest of her movements, and the ever-present slowness of her somehow elegant. Regina sighs, feeling herself enchanted by her lover as if it were their first night together, and smiles when she sees her press her hand to the top of a baby unicorn’s head, Maleficent’s proudly acclaimed new pet.

 _I needed something to take care of,_ Maleficent had explained, and Regina had snorted when she’d looked at her pointedly, as if Regina herself is nothing but a long lost pet. Regina can’t deny that the animal is beautiful, hair black and shiny, dark eyes bright and body strong, but the whole idea of Maleficent wanting the company of any kind of beast had left her confounded. Truth be told, there is something a little off about her, if perhaps not in any way bad. On the contrary, Maleficent appears almost chipper, an attribute so bewildering when attached to the ever-brooding witch that it makes her think that they may have all gone mad, after all.

“So, you were ranting?”

Regina hums as an answer to Maleficent’s prodding, once again entirely too tempted by the prospect of sleep, the image of Maleficent naked and petting a unicorn so delightfully dream-like that surely she must already be asleep.

Turning around and walking back towards the bed, two cups in her hands and a loyal pet walking behind her, Maleficent distractedly drones, “You were in the middle of some rant or other before you were otherwise distracted.”

Regina laughs at that, and when Maleficent arches an eyebrow, she can’t help the naughty tilt to the smile she offers in return; after all, by distraction Maleficent means nothing but her fingers prodding insistently between Regina’s legs for probably the third time tonight. Regina may have just been revealing secrets of state, for all that she knows.

“It was all terribly boring, I must say.”

“And unimportant, I’m sure, dear,” Regina counters, far too spent to question whether she’d been blabbering on about the Summer Festival, the persecution of an irritating wolf, or Snow roaming her kingdom and still alive. Naked and in Maleficent’s bed, weariness conquering her limbs after hours of mutual pleasure, it all seems like a different life, one belonging to someone she barely recognizes anymore.

Maleficent says nothing, perching herself on the edge of the bed and offering her a cup of heaven’s knows what instead. Once Regina frees her of the drink, Maleficent’s hand finds her belly, and scratches softly at the skin there in an oddly soothing caress, distracting beyond belief. Regina has been neglecting her body for far too long, she realizes, far too busy driving herself mad instead and grasping at the tails of dreams of peace of mind with clumsy and desperate fingers. She’s thankful, then, that whatever spell the ending of the summer has cast upon her, it has thrown her into the search of comfort, of father’s soothing voice and Maleficent’s careful embrace. Distractedly, she takes a sip from the drink Maleficent had pressed into her hand, and it’s only after the dry and unknown taste sticks to the roof of her mouth that she moves from her prone position, wrinkling her nose with disgust.

“Whatever is this foul-tasting _thing,_ Mal?”

Maleficent barks out a laugh at that, and answers, “Cruella calls it gin; a gift from her land.”

Wrinkling her nose yet again, if only to further prove her point, Regina states, “It tastes like medicine.”

“It’s a bit of an acquired taste, I suppose,” Maleficent counters, shrugging one shoulder even as she takes a small sip herself. Then, with an odd look to her eyes, she murmurs, “Kind of like Cruella herself.”

“Who is this… _Cruella?”_ Regina questions, distaste sipping into her tone unwittingly. “Are you making new friends? Should I be jealous?”

“Oh yes, most definitely, little girl.”

Maleficent laughs yet again after her words, and then leans with feline grace towards Regina, so dizzyingly fast that she can do nothing but accept the kiss bestowed upon her lips. It’s more a bite than a kiss, brief and harsh, Maleficent’s teeth dragging her lower lip with them until they pull an unwitting whimper from Regina. The gesture reeks aggression, and even as Maleficent smiles at her, Regina licks slowly at her bottom lip, warning now etched into the plump flesh.

Regina lets the moment go, and soon Maleficent is back to scratching her belly, her hands the only ones Regina has ever allowed anywhere close to her old scar. They allow silence to fall between them, and Regina fights sleepiness by pressing soft fingers among the hairs of one very insistent little unicorn. The thing seems to have taken a shine to her, and Regina can do nothing but oblige, particularly when Maleficent’s hypnotic touch is threatening with putting her to sleep. They’re curious little things, unicorns, magical creatures that Rumpelstiltskin had taken great joy in speaking about, even as he was exhorting Regina to rip the heart of one of the beautiful creatures. He’d often talked of their powers of prediction, of how some people had been driven mad after seeking them, while others had found peace in the secure knowledge of their future. He’d also taken great delight in mocking both sorts, for he knew better than anyone that fate wasn’t a straight and narrow line, and that no future was truly written in stone. Regina, who had always hated the idea that her decisions held no power over her destiny, had found comfort in the idea. Now, though, looking into the strangely human eyes of this beast before her, she feels thoroughly tempted to test her fate; it may just do her some good, help her settle the wavering feelings that keep screaming at her to kill everything in sight one moment, only to plunge her into despair the next, forcefully pulling her into a loopy sense of calm on the following instant. Then again, it may just unhinge her completely.

“Are you tempted, darling?” Maleficent questions after a moment, her voice pulling her back from her reverie, and making her realize that her gaze has been unwaveringly attached to the animal’s for a while now. “I think he wants you to.”

Regina’s first instinct is to scoff, mock the thought of luring attraction, but curiosity holds her back. Instead, she looks into Maleficent’s mirthful eyes, and wonders, “Have you?”

“Maybe.”

“And?” Regina prods, instantly curious, eyes widening in child-like wonder.

Maleficent laughs, stealing a kiss from her bewildered lips before she mutters, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Nonetheless, Regina studies her for a too long moment, wanting to catch a glimpse of whatever Maleficent’s eyes may be hiding. Her gaze is frustratingly remote, and rather than find out hidden secrets, Regina ends up batting distracting hands away from her chest before she slides her eyes back towards the unicorn. It’s much too tempting, and it’s only that which stops Regina’s hand from touching the creature’s horn and seeing whatever its magic may show her. She licks her lips, her mouth feeling suddenly dry, and she questions the pull of the beast before her, the sudden and nearly unstoppable need to allow it to tell its tale of an uncharted future. What can it possibly show her that Regina may want to see, after all? Snow’s head on a plate; a kingdom that has forgotten its princess and accepts its queen instead; a land barren, destroyed by Regina’s powerful and unwavering hand; or happiness, perhaps, whatever that they mean for Regina? Regina foresees something completely different for some reason she can’t even begin to understand, her own future as unpredictable as the mood that will grip her tomorrow.

She looks into the animal’s eyes, black pools of unforeseen knowledge that have been following her around for some time now, beacons of temptation. Something tells her that she shouldn’t give in, and yet, after floundering between confounding emotions for so long, the allure is too fascinating for Regina to decline. She gives in, the pad of suddenly shy fingers resting against the surface of the creature’s horn even as her eyes remain fixed on the unicorn’s, as if unwittingly begging for a prophecy of a healing future. The horn feels like marble under her hand, hard and cold, but Regina barely has a moment to register the feeling before she’s being pulled under the magical spell of the creature, a breathless moment of regret pulling at the strings of her throat as a drowning-like sensation grips her whole body, submerging her into the deep end of a conscious fantasy.

She opens her eyes, breathes in. Her vision is somewhat blurry, uncertain, and the sound of her breathing far too loud, as if she’s been running for a long time and only now has she decided to stop. Somewhere on the back of her head she knows she’s dreaming, trapped within mystical magic, but the idea of it all feels abstract to her, like a thought that wants to escape her greedy fingers. She swallows, and just like her breaths the sound is too loud, alien despite its familiarity, jarring to her senses. She looks about herself, nervous and unsure, and when the world around her is nothing but interchanging blurs, lights too bright against her eyes and vanishing glimpses of places she distantly recognizes, she looks down at herself instead, studying trembling hands that abruptly feel as foreign as the rest of her body.

_Regina?_

Her own name crashes against her skull like a physical blow, and Regina reaches up and towards her head, burying claw like hands into loose locks of hair, as if she could hold onto the letters that make her who she is by sheer determination. Maleficent is the one calling, and she wants to follow her voice, knows for certain that it would awaken her from the uncomfortable dreamscape around her. She closes her eyes tightly, willing herself to find guidance in the echo of Maleficent’s voice, but the world is precipitously inundated by cacophonous sounds, a chorus of voices and noises that are both familiar and strange, and that pound against Regina’s skull like bludgeoning rocks.

 _Oh Regina, I do worry when you’re unkind,_ reaches her, and the Snow that says it isn’t really here, is but a conjured image that doesn’t match the one Regina holds in her head. Short-haired and mild-looking, something unbearably insipid about her eyes, the Snow that suddenly appears to her looks down, apologetic, a strange murmur of _oh, sorry, Madam Ma –_

But Regina doesn’t let her finish, turning away from the discomfiting ghost of this _not-Snow_ before her. The noises liven up then, a discordancy of sound attacking her from every direction, feeling entirely too close and much too far away at the same time, dizzying in its cadence. Some bits are clearer than others; the unwavering voice of a man shouting _I will always find you_ badgering her with its intensity, filling her up with a wave of unbridled anger; mother’s voice, steadier than all the rest, whispering lessons learned in her ears, whispering murmurs until the back of her head tingles with the certainty of her, with her ever oppressive spirit. Regina falls to her knees, and she’s thankful for the solid ground she finds beneath them, for the pain that shoots up her legs once her movement pauses. She focuses on it, grabs at it with her desperately assaulted senses, and it is only then that the world materializes before her, a path forming before her eyes, narrow but solid. She reaches forward, touches the ground with her outstretched palm, breathes in.

And then, suddenly, a wailing cry pierces her senses. She gasps, the sound all-consuming, unreasonably high and coming from every corner around her. She wants to stop it, needs to stop it with such violent urgency that she forces her limbs into action, standing up jerkily and running forward through the path before her, somehow sure that she’ll find the source of the cry at its end. Discordant racket follows her, her ragged breathing not enough to quiet down distant and meaningless voices, the shrill sound of Rumpelstiltskin’s laughter surrounding her like a physical and viscous web. Louder than all, though, the earsplitting crying that Regina keeps running towards, the certainty that she must somehow stop it hardening her steps, quickening her tired legs that seem so very positive of the path they must take.

If it takes her hours or mere seconds Regina can’t guess at, but eventually she reaches a clearing, free of ghostly noise but conquered by the desperate bawling of a baby, bundled tightly within a soft blanket but left to fend for itself on the ground. Behind the crying baby, a woman mutters incessantly, words too mumbled for Regina to understand, and her voice easily muffled by the incessant weeping. Regina wants to yell her, order her to sooth her child into silence, but the words catch in her throat, choke somewhere on her neck, leaving her breathless and voiceless. She stomps her foot on the ground then, but the baby can do nothing but cry, and the woman is far too trapped within what must surely be maddening desperation, for she’s hugging her knees to her chest, rocking forwards and backwards in a dizzying cadence as she mutters, unstoppable and uncaring. Her face, hidden between her knees, is covered by longs locks of messy blond hair, and Regina wants nothing more than to pull them away, look into this woman’s eyes and ask her to make the noise stop. Instead, she kneels before them both, only then catching the woman’s words, a string of _Ican’tbeamotherIcan’tbeamotherIcan’tbeamother_ that Regina can’t bear to listen to.

She looks down then, at the baby crying before her, chubby arms reaching up for someone to comfort him, face red and splotchy from the effort. It’s a boy, and it’s also the most beautiful little child she has ever seen. She reaches down, but her trembling hands pause halfway, hovering on the air, powerful but suddenly so useless. She gasps, feeling her own belly itch painfully, her head conjuring up images of little Prince Bernard and his smile forever lost, of a ten year old Snow, innocent and sinless when Regina had saved her from sure death above her horse. So many children lost, and how can Regina hope to hold such a delicate thing without destroying it? How can hands that know nothing but harshness possibly soothe such innocence? And yet the baby cries and the woman mutters, driving Regina increasingly insane, conquering her every sense until she gives into the compulsion and takes the baby into her arms. She holds him with as much care as she possesses, hands soft and protective under his head as she brings him to rest against her chest.

Silence reigns around them thereupon, the woman before her stopping her words and her dizzying motion, and the baby’s cries subsiding until his face opens up, bright eyes staring up at Regina in wonder, tiny smile teasing against round cheeks.

Only then does Regina recover her voice, and unwittingly, with no thought to the matter, she whispers, “Hello; hello, Henry.”

Abruptly, the steady warmth expanding through Regina’s chest stops, only to be replaced by a pull of receding magic. She fights it, immediately understanding what it is, but no matter how hard she holds onto the fantasy, onto the figure of the woman before her and the child between her arms, it all fades away in a single short moment, leaving her breathless as she finds herself back in her reality, Maleficent’s fortress around her, and her arms bereft of a welcome weight. She wails against it, an unwitting cry of _no, no, wait, not yet_ clawing its way from her throat, agony palpable in desperate words.

Somewhere, Maleficent calls for her, and it takes her too long to understand that she’s as close as she can be to her, holding a blanket over her and embracing her uncooperative limbs with strong arms. Regina’s crying, though, dampness obvious against her cheeks and breathing jagged, conquered by hiccups and the bubbling of ugly sobs. She’s trembling, but Maleficent’s voice and cuddle, usually so soothing, feel like a prison all of a sudden, and she frees herself from them with angry yet purposeless limbs, scrambling away from her friend like a skittish and scared little animal. She stumbles from the bed, the unicorn moving away from her lost gaze as she falls to the floor, her nakedness a sudden vulnerability. She hugs herself, feeling cold and lost, the sight of the drafty and dark bedchambers around her unexpectedly vulgar and repugnant to her overloaded senses. She’s still a little drunk, and the wine swirls inside her head uncomfortably, making her all the woozier. She feels sick.

“Regina, my darling, little girl…” Maleficent mutters from somewhere next to her, her voice careful even when for Regina is jarring, far too loud and unwelcome after the vision she just had.

It had felt real, for a second, the weight of a baby in her arms, and now she presses her hands to her own flesh, a scar so painful marring the skin low on her belly, ripping at her insides with the teasing of what’s not to be. How could magic be so cruel as to offer such haunting visions, as to taunt her with desires so deeply buried within her own heart?

She bristles, righteous anger marring the short-lived fantasy and fueling enough for her to stand up and conjure clothes over her own body, her corset tightening up against her with such strength that she forces herself to push down a grunt. Constricted by thick fabrics, she breathes better, and it’s so disconcertingly wrong to feel better when she’s being trapped that she can do nothing but laugh. Even with her overloaded senses, she knows it sounds unbalanced.

“Are you losing your mind, Regina?” Maleficent questions then.

Regina finally looks her way, barely registering her even as she tries to focus on her figure, long, naked and alluring, so very tempting only minutes before. She feels as if she’s climbing her way through muddy water, though, her faculties dulled and still lost within a fantasy that had, for a bright moment, awaken something too similar to love inside her chest.

“I think I might be,” she answers, her tone too soft.

Maleficent reaches out for her, but Regina can’t bear the thought of being touched now, of connecting with reality when the fantasy remains, and when it’s far too alluring to let go. She _tsks,_ hating herself for the weakness, regretting her decision to give into the madness of prophecies. She has been so adamant in her desires to build her own destiny, after all, to create her own game and escape that which never belonged to her, and it feels like an insult to her own efforts to take the easy way of a glimpse at the future. It’s silly, even, considering how she knows that fate isn’t written stone, that whatever the unicorn just showed her is probably nothing but wishes whispered in the wind. A lost woman and a lost child, and Regina the savior of them both – what a silly notion, when she has destroyed far more than she has ever created, when children and family has been escaping through her fingers for as long as she’s lived. The vision must be nothing but a fantasy, she decides, the wistfulness of whatever childish spirit still remains in her teasing at the corners of her mind. She’s a queen, though, not an infant, a queen with a runaway princess, a kingdom to conquer, a council to rule, an army to command, and as of tomorrow, a Summer Festival to attend. She holds onto those facts, tangible realities of the person she is, of the truths she has fought for, and pushes the spectral vision of long blond locks and a chubby smile far away from her mind.

“I’m sorry, dear,” she says, finally, hiding her eyes away from Maleficent and from her condemning pet, lest they see traces of Regina’s longing hidden in their depths. “I must go back, address the council before the festival and all that boring business. See you soon? Do behave while I’m gone.”

 

* * *

 

The day of the Summer Festival dawns with clear skies and the sun high up and shining brightly, an omen of good fortune that sees Regina groaning her way out of a restless and turbulent sleep, plagued with unwanted dreams of blonde faceless women and beautiful looking babies. She shakes the thoughts away easily enough, though, the prospect of the day enough to make her forget whatever strange dreamscapes she had been pulled into just the night before. Truth be told, she has been looking forward to the festival, and she won’t allow anything to ruin the closest thing to wondrous anticipation she has felt in years.

Mother had never allowed her attendance to what she’d referred to as _the unrefined entertainment of the masses,_ and Regina, twelve years old and still dreaming of folk tales, princes and romance, had wistfully thought of the jousting tournaments and archery contests, of the bonfires that extended long into the night and where nobles and peasants alike danced carelessly to the music of travelling bands. Later on, Daniel had been her insight into the forbidden festivities, his clear voice filled with stories and laughter, and with a promise to bring her along one day, a promise that he’d never been allowed to fulfill. They had tried, once, when Regina had been sixteen and their affair had been but the sigh of fledging love, when a smile from Regina was capable of making Daniel blush to the root of his hair, and when they had barely begun to understand the feelings that they shared. Their plans had been thwarted by mother’s hand and her order of time spent in the dark cellar of the house, and even if Regina can’t fully recall the sin she had committed that had delivered her such a sentence, she certainly remembers the defeated despair of her punishment. It seems oddly ironic and yet poetically understandable, then, that the one favor she had never been able to extract from her cowering husband was the right to visit the festival, as if her most terrible jailors had somehow been in cahoots when it came to doling out discipline.

The past has no place on her thoughts today, though, and so Regina dresses herself in rich yet comfortable riding clothes that will undoubtedly bring a brush of disapproval to Duchess Adela’s eyes, and readies herself to finally be a part of something so simple, and yet so displeasingly forbidden. Leopold had usually only attended the late afternoon festivities, but Regina had been adamant about spending the whole day at the main village, as well as about bringing with her gifts of food, ale and wine, knowing well that such things are usually far more effective at plying the human spirit than any other promise she may give away. Therefore, she leaves the palace almost at first light, once she has managed to push her tiredness away, her entourage following with grumbling protests. Among her guard and her council, though, travels father as well, and his smile matches Regina’s brilliantly; after all, whatever prohibition Regina had endured under mother’s controlling hands, father had endured as well, and perhaps he’s harbored secret desires of seeing the festival for himself, too. Regina wishes he would tell her things like these, for she would dote upon him without a second thought if only he ever did. She knows too well that father will never utter any words that may make him a nuisance, though, and so Regina will have to guess at whatever hidden desires he holds.   

Soon enough, Regina’s booted feet are settling upon dusty gravel, her carriage along with her escorts enough to gather the attention of villagers already reunited in the main square of town, enough of them that the ensuing silence is deafening. Regina breathes in slowly, telling herself that the reaction is to be expected, and that as long as it isn’t an outward display of hatred and dismissal, then she won’t be disturbed by it. She holds onto father’s arm for support, though, linking herself to him and steadying herself against his frame for a second before she proceeds to order her men around, so the carriages of food and wine that have been following her make their way to the communal tables. The flurry of movement from her guards breaks the spell, and soon enough the crowd is moving again, whispering about themselves and looking at Regina only in quick glimpses, as if afraid that she may kill them with a simple gaze. It’s not ideal, Regina muses, but then she doesn’t expect to be received with open arms and joy, not after bearing the brunt of the cruelty of the crowds after the tour of the land she’d taken with Snow after the spreading disease had stopped its deathly curse, not after the rumors that abound about her cold cruelty, or about the fear her witchcraft has instilled among her people. The lack of condemnation is the best that she can hope for, and perhaps, after a day of looking upon her among gleeful festivities, a different light will be shed upon her image.

“You should have heeded my advice of lighter clothes, Your Majesty,” Duchess Adela says next to her. “Black is hardly appropriate for the season or the early hour.”

Regina smiles placidly at her, her own foresight about the woman’s opinions on her dark garments effectively halting any anger they may have provoked. “Perhaps I will redefine what is deemed appropriate then, duchess.” Then, before the woman can complain any further, she presses her free hand to father’s arm so that they begin walking and says, “Now, let us enjoy the day in peace.”

The festival isn’t grandiose by any means, certainly nothing like balls held within the walls of the palace, and even lacking the splendor she had splurged on when she had rebelliously organized her own alternative celebrations back in her days as Leopold’s wife, but there’s something quietly jovial about the whole ordeal, lightheartedness obviously claiming a part of everyone’s heart. Charming is the best description Regina finds as she looks at garlands adorning every tree and at food of every kind filling innumerable tables, and as she listens to the soft lute music that follows her every step. She watches everything with concealed fascination in her eyes, something of the little girl that had never gotten to see such sights coming alive within her, and making her feel giddy.

Soon enough, her presence doesn’t feel so jarring, as confounding as it had at first, and while she doesn’t blend in with people dressed in soft pinks and blues, in faded browns and deep greens, the sight of her among the crowd fails to elicit surprised gasps, or even anything other than curious yet short looks. A few nobles arrive as the day moves forward, and most of them seem happy with acknowledging her with polite nods and very little else, for which Regina is secretly grateful, having no intention of faking her way through any conversation. She spots Baroness Irene a little before noon, and while her first instinct is to avoid her at every cost, when she realizes that the woman’s intentions coincide with her own, she takes the exact opposite resolution, and lingers close enough to her to make her positively uncomfortable, taking petty delight in the baroness’ flushed cheeks whenever she spots Regina anew. Regina finds herself covering up her mouth with her own hand in order to hide a peal of laughter, and she’s so distracted by her own amusement that she completely misses a man approaching her, so that when he speaks loud and clear next to her, she almost jumps in surprise.

“That’s not very nice, is it?”

Regina turns towards the voice with sudden jerkiness, but only fixes her gaze on its owner once she’s set her eyes upon Claude, who remains two steps behind her and already has his hand around the hilt of his sword. After smiling in careful assurance at her bodyguard, she brings her attention towards the rude intruder that dares speak to her with such freedom, and is confronted with a handsome face, wavy brown hair, sharp cheeks and plump smile, all of them belonging to a man dressed in rich yet odd clothing, something about the fabric of his vest too bright, and the gold chain adorning his neck managing to be boorish even when clearly expensive.

“And who would you be to speak to me with such freedom?” she wonders, neglecting to address the man even by a generic title, since he hasn’t given her such consideration.

The man only laughs, impolite yet delightfully amused, his smile spreading bizarrely over his own lips. Regina bristles, but she finds her easily flared temper subdued by curiosity, and by the alien quality of the laughing man before her. Something about him discomfits her, his demeanor failing to match his looks, and the richness of his attire, while speaking of nobility, oddly recalling the thought of a boy trying on his father’s garments, and failing to fill them properly.

“Who are you?” she questions yet again, daring the man to remain silent.

He doesn’t, but the following statement from his lips manages to be equally as infuriating, a giddy and tangibly mocking, “Guess,” falling from his smiling lips.

Regina would have his head, honestly, knowing that barely more than a nod will have Claude’s sword at the man’s throat and his disrespectful smirk gone forever, but it’s not even midday, and the festival doesn’t call for such wasteful tragedies. Regina narrows her eyes then, thinking the man perhaps a long forgotten noble, but the closer she looks, the more bizarre he seems to her, as if she’s failing to see the whole picture and is simply staring at a palpable falsehood instead, an invented reality of sorts. She licks her lips, her mouth suddenly dry, and it’s then that she tastes the extraordinary tainting the air, gooey-like magic sticking to the back of her throat, sliding down her spine until she recognizes the glamour for what it is. A blink, and the man fades before her, her eyes finally looking past the magical mask and to the truth behind it, well-known features staring back at her instead, Rumpelstiltskin’s golden scales and absurd curly hair a quick enough revelation. As soon as she spies the truth, the imp giggles, obviously delighted by his own trickery.

“Very good, dearie,” he praises, the small jump that follows his statement natural to his usual movements but surely funny-looking and strange when he’s wearing the skin of his enchantment.

Regina rolls her eyes, amused despite herself, and hisses, “ _What_ are you doing here? Go away.”

“I’m enjoying the festival, can’t begrudge an old friend that.”

Regina snorts, if at the idea that the imp may not have an ulterior motive or at referring to her as _old friend_ she’s not particularly sure. Nonetheless, Rumpelstiltskin smiles at her, and the gesture lacks his usual taunting demeanor, tinged with something rather indescribable instead. It might be the mask he’s wearing, the magic confounding Regina’s senses and making her see both the truth and the lie, and neither one of them at the same time, but she dares guess that there’s something like nostalgia painting Rumpelstiltskin’s gaze. To admit such a thing would be to accept that there’s something human still somewhere under the darkness of the creature, and while Regina wishes she could deny such an idea, she has known the imp long and intimately enough to have spied such a thing before, hidden away and pushed back. Whatever remains of the man Rumpelstiltskin once was he surely must hate, for whatever small piece Regina has been privy to in the past has spoken of weakness and cowardice, of powerlessness so damaging that the damnation of the Dark One’s curse must have felt like the better choice.

Rumpelstiltskin breaks her out of her reverie with a twirling motion of his hand, the preamble of what Regina suspects is going to be a longwinded tale. Sure enough, he begins speaking in a chipper tone and rhetorically wonders, “Did you ever study the origins of the Summer Festival, dearie?”

He keeps talking then, the physical effort he’s exhorting over himself so as not to give into his usual posturing entertaining enough that Regina allows him to ramble importantly, even as she tunes him out easily enough, years of practice making the task entirely too easy. The double sound of his voice is discomfiting, anyhow, rumbling uncomfortably against her ears, and there is nothing about the tradition behind the festival that Regina doesn’t already know. It had once been the subject of many a story falling from father’s lips, the mysterious summer night when evil spirits roam free, and witches meet their masters, the common folk only to be protected by the power of the flames. Rumpelstiltskin’s tale is far more monotonous and elaborate, and when he speaks of masters and witches he laughs, high-pitched and uncomfortable, and bops Regina’s nose, prompting her to step back and slap his hand away. The _nerve_ of the man, honestly.

Wrinkling her nose in disgust and huffing, Regina crosses her arms over her chest, making a show of her own irritation even as she lets him continue his speech. She purses her lips and studies him, not particularly sure that she should believe his intentions innocent when visiting the festival. Then again, he has been behaving in such a strange manner as of late that she can’t even begin to guess at the truth of it all. Admittedly, he has been fairly absent from her life for the past year, the visit he had paid her after she’d thrown the traitorous huntsman into the dungeons with the sole purpose of mocking her the last he had bestowed upon her until a month back, when he had showed up in her bedchambers in the middle of the night and had earned himself an enthusiastically aimed vase thrown at his head. She’d nearly hit him, too.

“Impulse control, dear–” he’d whined, his statement interrupted by a fireball that time.

Surprisingly enough, his visit had come with a request, and Regina had savored the almighty Dark One asking her for a favor instead of the other way around with the smugness he had ruled over her since they’d first met. It had been satisfying enough to keep her smiling for a few days; she had so little amusement these days, after all. His petition for her to deny her help to Sir Maurice and his apparently urgent problem with rogue bands of ogres had come as a surprise, particularly when Regina had spent some time investigating the man to find nothing of notice – he was but a nobleman hidden away in some faraway part of the kingdom, and Regina had smiled at the thought that not even the death of King Leopold had made him abandon his abode and visit the palace. Whatever business the man may have had with the Dark One Regina hadn’t questioned much longer, and had simply exchanged the favor for further lessons in her transfiguration spells – her last attempt at turning a goat into a frog had ended up with the animal vaguely green and moist, but most definitely goat-shaped, which had been… unfortunate.

Today, the memory is but a fleeting thought, drowned by Rumpelstiltskin’s tirade, which Regina chooses to stop once she realizes the funny looks they’re getting from peasants and noblemen alike.

“Dear, is there a point to this?” she questions, smirking when Rumpelstiltskin looks honestly offended at being so swiftly interrupted. “Are you here to wreak havoc, break a deal perhaps? If so, do make it quick.”

“No, dearie, no deals today. The festival is–that is to say I always come–used to come with Ba–no more questions!”

The outburst is both surprising and chilling, Rumpelstiltskin’s tone taking on a darker quality the longer he fumbles with his words, half-spoken confessions Regina can’t even begin to guess at, but that speak of a certain attachment to the date. She holds her fist to her chest, her heart beating wildly under her skin, threat thrumming under Rumpelstiltskin’s skin and tasting of heavy magic around her, even when he’s not even looking at her. He’s looking at a group of children instead, boys and girls who have stopped their cheerful game to stare at them both with wide and curious eyes, as if their infancy allows them to see that which is invisible to others. Briefly, Regina wonders if perhaps Rumpelstiltskin’s isn’t the Pied Piper of the old legends, or if his dealings with children and names go far beyond anything Regina may have ever imagined. Whatever the answer may be, Regina doesn’t get one at all, and when trumpets announce the beginnings of the tournaments, effectively breaking the strange atmosphere that has settled around her and her former master, the imp returns to his commonplace cheery attitude.

He coughs, as if trying to rid himself of the traces of whatever wild disposition has conquered him today, and does a little turn on his heels, finishing it by curtseying before her, and bidding her goodbye with, “Enjoy your festival, Your Majesty.”

Regina begins to speak in order to issue the proper reply expected of the queen, but he interrupts it, saying his goodbyes yet again, but in a fashion much more in accordance with his usual self, and with the true meaning of their relationship. He steps closer, his grin hiding warning and menace, and when he catches her chin with oppressive fingers, she thinks, not for the first time, that she has sold her soul to the devil, and that he isn’t done feeding himself with it.

“Now be careful, dearie,” he speaks into her face, his hiss recalling a serpent. “It is a night for the wicked, after all.”

 

* * *

 

Regina shakes the oddness of Rumpelstiltskin’s visit away as soon as the tournaments begin, even when she spots him among the crowd, the gaudy bright blue of his vest impossible to ignore. His purpose doesn’t appear to be treacherous, however, and the lightness that has been conquering her throughout the day wins over any other emotion easily enough, allowing her to enjoy the festivities as she so wishes. The tournaments begin with sword fighting, and Claude steps away from his spot as her main bodyguard in order to participate, only after fearsomely reassuring her that his replacement is equally efficient, and under threat of losing his head were something to happen to their queen. She smiles at his enthusiasm, and ties a deep purple ribbon about his wrist for good fortune, which makes him puff out his chest in proud accomplishment, making Regina smile brilliantly. The childishness her men exhibit whenever she favors them never fails to please her, such devotion from large and brutish fighters a giddy relief to her otherwise irritable emotions.

The sword tournament is followed by jousting, an endeavor that Regina can’t fully wrap her head around, or enjoy with as much delight as the swordfights. There is something inherently stupid about men galloping towards each other with big wooden sticks, and the absurdity of it all attacks her with such suddenness that she has to hide her laughter as best as possible, so as not to offend the participants, lest they think their masculinity mocked.

The time remaining before the archery tournament, set to happen right before sunset as is tradition, Regina spends perusing the food stands by father’s side. She ends up pecking her way through most of the sweets she has brought as a gift herself, most of them common, but a few others a tribute to her lost friend Bernie, who had so dutifully and adoringly sent her both sweets and recipes during the years of their friendship. It’s with wistfulness that Regina thinks of the batch of recipes that she had had bound into a beautiful leather book, creating for herself a memento of the little prince that she had otherwise been denied.

The archery tournament begins with a trumpet call, and Regina sits in the stands with so much childlike wonder that she’s a little embarrassed of her own disposition. She can’t help but be flooded by old stories of knights winning contests for their ladies, though, of pure-hearted peasants defying the noblemen of the kingdom with bow and arrow, claiming their place among royals on the merit of their skills. It’s silly how it makes her heart beat faster, whatever smidgeon of a little girl that remains within her waking up at the prospect of witnessing arrows flying with precision, and later on the coronation of the beauty of the festival by the hands of the winner, as is tradition. Any other day such a thought may displease her, particularly once she spies the wilting flower of a girl dressed in fluffy cream fabrics that obviously expects to be the one chosen by whoever wins the contest, the thought of such expectation wasted on the whims of a man making her uncomfortable. Today, though, she allows herself to be swept by the romance of it all, her spirit overcome by the excitement of the tales of old. Perhaps Rumpelstiltskin had been right in calling the night magical, if Regina can’t help but think that it can’t in any way turn wicked.

Three of her men appoint themselves as contestants, and the three of them fall under the skillful hand of a man that keeps himself away from Regina’s and the crowd’s curious eyes, his features covered by a frustratingly opaque hood, only his hands visible as he shoots arrows with such celerity and finesse that the crowd gasps with frenzied agitation. The exhibition is wonderful enough that she parts with the coins of the prize without regret, finding herself so distracted by the sight of beautifully handcrafted arrows firmly stuck to the center of their targets that she completely misses the commotion that follows until she finds herself staring at the winner himself, gazing up at her in the stands and offering the crowning garland of the beauty of the festival up at her.

“If Her Majesty will allow me,” he intones, voice strong and commanding, striking Regina with incomprehensible force and quickening her pulse as if a spell had been cast upon her with nothing but the power of spoken words.

Narrowing her eyes at the still hooded figure, Regina ponders the situation. Tradition calls for a young maiden or a newlywed bride to take the crown, and both Regina’s age and station make the gesture impolite, which immediately makes her feel unease, the memory of attempts against her life far too fresh for her to trust the honesty of a man that refuses to show his face to the crowds. She should reject the flower crown and command the man towards the stands filled with young and delicate little things, and yet she finds that she doesn’t want to. Simple desire is what makes her stand from her place and climb her way down to the winning archer, mystifying longing making her move with ease, as if enchanted. And perhaps she is, for she can’t explain the sudden need to look into this man’s eyes, to allow herself to be complimented by his gift. Then again, perhaps she’s simply had one too many cups of wine.

If the crowd had gasped at the man’s skills with bow and arrow, Regina feels like doing so the moment she stands before him, his bright blue eyes impossibly shiny as they lock with hers with nearly impolite ferocity. Regina chokes the sound down, forces herself to steady abruptly trembling hands. It’s not that the man is handsome, which he is, sharp cheekbones and laughter lines appealing enough though not strikingly so. She has seen more beauty than this man’s features possess, and yet she feels trapped within his gaze, drawn to him in a way that makes her sway on the spot, sudden desire to press her lips against his perplexing. She doesn’t know this man, and yet there is something familiar in his eyes, warm and inviting, a promise of strong and protective arms and contentment beyond her wildest imagination. Indeed she doesn’t know him, and yet she feels like she should.

When he steps closer to rest the crown on her head, Regina licks her lips, her mouth suddenly dry and her whole body drumming with unwanted nerves. She catches his scent, pinewood and dust, the smell of the forest, common and nearly vulgar, unattractive by every measure and yet somehow alluring at the same time. He presses the flowers to her head, the lightest crown she has ever worn resting easily over the loose and uncomplicated hairdo she had agreed on this morning for the sake of softness and comfort. When he steps back, taking away the scent of sweat and skin, Regina wants to follow. She must be losing her mind, that she should be so enraptured by such an ordinary man. As the man moves back, the crowd applauds the gesture, but both him and Regina remain trapped within their gazes, standing far too close to be appropriate and yet farther than Regina would wish them to be. Would it be strange for her to invite him to her bed tonight? Would he be appalled by such behavior? And why should Regina care what this man thinks of her, she who is a queen and a grown woman, and him being nothing but a man with a talent?

“The flowers pale in comparison to your beauty, Your Majesty,” he says then, and it must be a testament to Regina’s bewitchment that not even such bland and banal words manage to break the spell of the man before her. What they do, though, is make her laugh with enough joy to break the stillness that had captured her previously.

With an easy smile painted on her lips and lifting her eyebrow, she says, “Dear, you will have to do better than that if you expect to pursue a queen.”

“Oh?” He counters, his smile widening by the second, as if delighted by the answer. “You must pardon a humble man for his lack of eloquence, Your Majesty; I can only hope to make up for it with my skillful bow.” He searches for her gaze after that yet again, and once he’s holding it, he offers an impudent grin and completes his statement with, “And with my handsome face, of course.”

“Humble you say?” Regina wonders, infinitely amused by him, pleasantly surprised by the gentle cockiness of his voice.

“Humility is what makes men into angels, Your Majesty, or so my poor old mother used to say; pardon me once again when I say that no angel would ever dare pursue a woman such as yourself.”

Regina’s eyes widen at the words, and she has to fight a sputter as she intones, “You would dare speak to me like that?”

He laughs at that, and it seems that his smile can only widen, painting cheerful and easy lines on his face, a world of happiness etched in between them. Regina finds herself envious of that freedom, craving it for herself as much as she apparently craves this man before her, infuriating as he may be. She has half a mind to drag him to her carriage and have him then and there, thoughtlessly loosing herself in the incomprehensible enchantment of him, but she’s somehow more intrigued by his words and his smiling eyes than by the charms his clothing may be hiding. His laughter hasn’t died yet when he reaches for her once again, grasping her hand with one of his own and pressing a lingering kiss to the skin of her knuckles, his lips dry yet soft.

“Yes, Your Majesty, I would dare.”

Her hand still held by his, and her own eyes dancing with unbidden enthrallment, she questions, “Who _are_ you?” Her voice is soft, much too soft, but she finds that she doesn’t miss the imperiousness her tone has boasted as of late, the commanding harshness that she has so gotten used to.

“I’m afraid if I were to tell you, you would be forced to send your men after me, Your Majesty.”

“What do–”

He interrupts her with a second kiss to her knuckles, though, quick and small, the hairs of his cropped beard soft against her skin, making her wish for more. It distracts her momentarily, and so she remains motionless even as he begins to step back and away from her.

“I pray to the gods we may meet again, Your Majesty,” he whispers for a goodbye, running away then, hood over his head and coins in his pocket, leaving nothing but his arrows behind.

As he fades from sight, Regina has the ridiculous desire to follow, break into a run until she finds him again, to what purpose she can’t possibly understand. Nevertheless, with him gone the thrall is broken, and she’s left standing alone by the wooden stands, a silly little flower crown atop her head, and the girl who should have received it in her stead somewhere in the vicinity, crying her woes at not being thought the most beautiful. She allows herself but a moment to stare into the distance, yearning for something that she fears might never come to pass now that the hooded figure is gone, nothing but the memory of a shy kiss pressed to her hand and the softly slowing down beat of her heart left to her for a memory of a moment’s enchantment. She feels, momentarily, as if she has lost something precious, and the inadequacy of not understanding what leaves her unsettled.

With a hasty movement, she grabs at the flower crown atop her head and removes it, making a minute decision and walking to the crying girl in her sweet cream garment and the small group of friends surrounding her and consoling her from her sadness. Their murmurs stop as she approaches and the girl, no more than sixteen and blotchy from her tears, sniffs her distress away, doing her best at curtseying before her. The gesture is clumsy if unusually charming, and the surprised smile she offers Regina after she leaves the crown atop her blond curls helps Regina understand why she must be considered the most beautiful of the village.

“I hope you know no greater sadness than the scorn of a foolish man’s whims, little one,” she tells her, her tone laced with such aching honesty that it baffles her as much as it does the group of girls.

She reaches out, a caress hidden in her curling hand, a sweet gesture that she has had no one to bestow upon since Snow left the palace. Regina places her knuckles against the girl’s cheek, sweet surrender breaking somewhere behind her breastbone when the girl closes her eyes and leans into the touch, as if Regina is nothing but the gentlest of sisters, and not a monster to be afraid of. The touch is brief, as sudden in its absence as it was in its display, and Regina cradles her hand against her chest, as if she’s been given something precious. Regina leaves the girls before gratitude can be uttered, smiling when childish giggles erupt among them as they contemplate the flowers now upon their friend’s head.

 

* * *

 

Night falls upon the festival and finds Regina in a pensive mood, sitting by the bonfire with father by her side, both of them sipping slowly at fresh tomato soup, cold to commemorate the heat that lingers still in the air. The sunset had been beautiful, painting the sky in bright pink and orange, the last rays of sun giving way to the mystic aura of the last summer night, as if truly hoping for devils to roam free through the thick forests. Darkness has fallen upon them now, but the fires are the biggest Regina has ever seen, and the orange flames, if perhaps they won’t guard them from evil spirits, certainly make for beautiful night lights. Around them, women and men dance with the giddiness of a day of tournaments, high-spirits and far too much drink, the soft lutes of the day having stopped their sound in favor of the noise of potent drums. There is something ceremonial about the ritual, about the liberation of careless dancing, and perhaps this was what Leopold and mother never wanted her to see, the abandon of people that had no shackles to wear around the wrists. It is true that Regina feels tempted to join the madness, and that it is but a sigh of propriety what keeps her sedentary instead.

Nonetheless, the air smells of magic, as if the unfamiliar unity of commoners and noblemen under the same starry sky is enough to conjure that which a single sorceress couldn’t possibly hope to achieve. Regina breathes it in, faithfully believing in the power coursing through the air, in whatever incantation has brought the strange happenings of the day, her encounter with Rumpelstiltskin filled with an odd and unspoken truth, the bewitching man capable of making her heart feel alive, a sisterly caress given to a sad little girl. The feeling is foreign to her, easy contentment lacking brutal passion, no ecstasy to speak of within her chest but no pain either, no destroying anger. Such tranquility is unknown to her, such comfortable warmth and lack of anticipation, of urgency to fill her hands and her head with activity so as to forget her festering wounds and jagged scars, the void of her insides and the chipped parts of her heart. She breathes in slowly, and holds onto to the feeling.

Tonight, she doesn’t feel like the hated queen of the land, the dark omen above this kingdom, the inadequate little girl filling shoes far too big for her. Perhaps it’s simply that she has spent her day among her people in peace, if not received with open arms then at least not jilted and denied, sharing their joy and celebrating their happiness. Sitting among them now, she wonders if this can possibly be a silent truce, an unwritten reconciliation, a promise of forgiveness over sins committed in the past. She wonders if she can allow herself to hope for such reprieve, and if she can allow the memory of Snow White to fade in exchange for such acceptance, for such tender approval. She wonders if, somehow, such heartfelt serenity can be enough to quell her quivering hands, to quench her need for blood in exchange for blood already spilled. Father had told her once that she was _good,_ and tonight she prays to gods she has never believed in that she is, because she needs this momentary hope, this quiet repletion, this sense that the future has more than barren lands and frightened gazes to offer her, that the magical premonition of holding a child against her breastbone is somehow more than a wistful fantasy, that there’s a way to fill the tangible absence that has lingered for years inside every crevice of her body.

So focused is Regina in her own thoughts and the sight of the dancing flames before her that she completely misses the one villager that manages to surpass the presence of her guards and approach her in steps so fast that she finds herself having to cover her mouth after an involuntary yelp. Tension builds for a moment, Claude reacting quickly and violently by standing close to her and ready to attack, and a few surprised villagers joining her yelp with a chorus of gasps. Regina is just as swift in her response, however, stopping Claude’s armed intentions when her eyes find that there’s no attack at all, and that her sudden visitor is but a little girl, no more than seven years old, who happens to be doing nothing but staring up at Regina with wide chestnut-colored eyes.

“I’m sorry!” The little girl exclaims, the apology sincere yet failing to sound polite. “I’m so sorry, Your Majesty, I wasn’t looking. I wanted to give you these flowers, and I never stop to think, or so says mama. Says I will never amount to nothing, she says, not with my foolish head.” And then, as an afterthought, “Your Majesty.”

Regina laughs, unbidden, the genuine and rapid rant making sudden warmth explode inside her chest. The girl smiles as if she has no care in the world, offering up a disorderly assortment of wildflowers that Regina takes from her with careful ease, spying then a set of impossibly bright eyes and a wonderfully brazen grin missing two front teeth.

“Thank you very much, dear,” she answers, holding the flowers closer to her chest, as if the most precious of treasures. “They are lovely.”

“You really think so? ‘Cause mama says they’re not fit for a queen, but they grow down south by Big John’s farm, and nothing grew for so long after the land had to be burnt when everyone was so sick, and I think they’re beautiful, Your Majesty! Not perfect, but papa always says perfect is boring, he says.”

“It sounds like your papa is a very wise man,” Regina murmurs.

The little girl nods importantly then, as if indeed her papa is the wisest man in the land, even as her eyes remain firmly settled upon Regina, perhaps a little awestruck. Regina finds herself staring right back, the girl before her sweet looking if not entirely pretty, skin as dark as Regina’s own and hair a wild mess of uncombed brown curls, cut short like a boy’s. Regina spies a few grass leaves stuck in between her curls, and she can’t help herself from reaching out and plucking them out carefully. The girl giggles, loud and rambunctiously impolite, and Regina smiles, wistful.

“What is your name, dear?” she questions.

“Emeline, Your Majesty.”

“Lovely,” Regina mutters, her voice distant and her tone contemplative, the girl before her pulling at memories never forgotten, at wounds that have the tenacity of reopening themselves time and time again despite Regina’s best efforts.

Thoughtfully, Regina realizes that her own child, had it been allowed life, would have been Emeline’s age by now, and she wonders whether she would have made a good mother after all. Briefly, she longs to scoop the little girl before her into her arms and claim her for herself, as the daughter and heir that Snow White no longer is, yearning for a child a thought that Maleficent’s unicorn may have brought to the forefront of her mind, but that may been a silent desire for a long time now.

“Would you like to see, Your Majesty?” Emeline questions after a moment, her hands swinging before her as if she wishes to offer them to Regina, but doesn’t particularly know how to. “The field by Big John’s farm, I mean, with the lovely flowers! I’ll take you and then mama won’t say that they ain’t fit for a queen no more, she won’t.”

Regina tilts her head to the side, curious and carefully distrusting. She hates it, though, hates that even the request of a child brings suspicions to her chest, and berates herself for the darkness of such thoughts in the face of such innocence. Making up her mind briskly, she answers, “I would love to, dear.”

Regina offers a hand and Emeline takes it with energy and without a second thought, her little fingers, already rough from life in the village, a comforting weight against Regina’s own. They walk together following Emeline’s spry steps, and Regina finds herself laughing when Claude sends a guard after them, and he has to run to catch up to them. He remains far behind them, so that Regina can almost forget the need for security that both her and her council have agreed on, and focus instead on Emeline’s rambling speech. The girl is certainly a little chatterbox, enough that she can’t help but be reminded of Snow and her babbler, of the way she would tell Regina of every single thought that crossed her head, at least when she’d been a child still. Her speeches had grown more guarded with age, but she’d never quite lost her penchant for long tirades that Regina had mostly hummed her way through with thinly veiled disinterest. She finds, despite herself, that Emeline isn’t quite as charming as Snow had once been, the shape of her words tiring and her enthusiasm slightly irritating.

They walk together for a long time, the soft breeze already announcing the end of the summer nice against Regina’s skin, and the darkened and dusty paths they’re walking through surprisingly pleasant. Regina tunes the girl out eventually, enjoying instead the hand that she’s still holding, and the way Emeline keeps swinging them together with nervous energy. It’s sweet, she thinks, that this girl would have no fear of her despite the stories she has surely heard, and Regina realizes that her eyes are surprisingly misty, one hand curling around that of the girl while her other one rests against her belly, trembling over the fabric of her suddenly too tight corset. Looking at Emeline with soft eyes, Regina sees a world of memories, of children loved and lost, of a past so painful that anger had seemed like the only possible answer to assure survival, and she wonders if she would dare to spy a world of promises just as well, of a future where the gazes bestowed upon her shine with regard and respect, with earned affection that so far has been denied. In the face of such promise, Regina believes she could find it in herself to let go of her anger, of the one protective shield that has been as much a blessing as it has been a curse, preserving her from the outside as much as it twisted her insides.

“It’s here!” Emeline announces eventually, ripping her hand away from Regina’s so she can trudge merrily into a small field where shabby little flowers grow disorderly.

The place is not particularly big or particularly beautiful, but children must definitely like stomping on it often enough, if the state of the poor flowers is any indication. It’s such a poor-looking little place that Regina wonders if this child has truly never seen more beauty than this; surely the shores barely a mile away from the village are a fairer sight, or even the thick forests that surround most of the settlement. If the place fails to be grand or beautiful, though, it at least succeeds in being tranquil, far away enough from the main square that it is shrouded in darkness, and that the music from the drums is but a light pattering of sound. Idly, Regina thinks that so far out here, no one would hear them scream. The traitorous thought alarms her for a moment, her heart thudding with sudden certainty inside her chest, and her throat constricting with abrupt signs of panic. She looks at Emeline, her figure twirling merrily among the flowers, and wills herself to breathe slowly and calm her senses, put her treacherous thoughts away.

Not a moment later, a muffled shout from her guard alerts her once again, his short-lived _Your Maj–_ failing to register completely when she finds her breathing air lacking, a tight rope being stretched around her neck, her body being propelled backwards and held against a strong and tall figure. She does try to scream then, but her attempt is futile, the rope choking both air and voice away from her. Instinct taking over, she fights against her attacker, her hands grasping maniacally at the rope around her neck, her legs kicking forward and backwards, her body fighting the hold the man behind her has on her. It’s useless and yet she fights, tears springing to her eyes when her breathing begins to fail, when her chest begins to heave rapidly, panic taking over when no air comes to her, when the pressure begins to build around her chest and her head. She struggles in vain, the man too strong and the rope too tight, her own strength leaving her as she suffocates against him, mouth opening in useless and breathless gasps. Her vision turns blurry, lights dancing before her eyes, and in a moment of stark clarity, she realizes that she’s going to die. She’s going to die on some dark and lackluster field at the hands of some undeserving man after being guided by the soft hand of a child. _Love is weakness,_ mother had said, and so it is the concession to brief gentleness what will kill her. As her vision gets fuzzier, her legs moving less and less as fighting becomes impossible for her mistreated body, she thinks _no, this is not how I go, this is not how it ends._ Stubborn, undeterred by her own weakening frame, she kicks again, digs her elbows back into the flesh they can find, her hands pulling away at the rope at her throat, her spirit taking over the battle her body refuses to put up.

And then it ends. Air returns to her lungs as abruptly as it had left her, and the gulps she takes are so big and desperate that she barely takes notice of the man holding her no longer doing so, but rather falling to the ground behind her, his body heavy and lifeless, landing awkwardly, blood flowing from a deep gash at his side. Regina falls to the ground herself, knees cracking as she hits the grass and hands landing heavily over her own thighs, her body sagging forward as her breathlessness remains, as her jagged pants begin to slow down little by little, the pressure in her chest receding and her vision focusing again on the world around her even as black spots still dance before her eyes.

“Your Majesty, are you alright?”

Regina nods, frantic, the figure of her guard and the sight of his bloodied sword infinitely more beautiful to her than any seas or fields, than any forests or festivals. She looks up, breathing through her mouth still with trembling doubt, as if her body is expecting to be denied air all over again, and nods once again, squinting her eyes until she recognizes the face before her.

“Rudy,” she whispers, smiling with honest relief when the guard nods in acknowledgment. She’s always liked Rudy, and she may just upgrade him to her favorite person in the world after tonight.

It settles her enough that she can look about herself, at the field where two corpses lie in the stillness of death, their blood coating the flowers Emeline had claimed to like so much. One meant for her and one meant for her guard, surely, and both of them fruitless in their efforts. Sneering, Regina regains her footing and stands up, ignoring the helping hand Rudy offers her in favor of touching her own neck instead, the skin there broken and tender, the burn of the rope painful still. Rudy’s face has been victim of the attack as well, a deep cut slicing the skin of his cheek, fresh blood still flowing down and coating his neck. Regina spares a moment more to despair over her wounds and those of her guard, before a spark of uncontrolled fury takes over her and she finds herself kicking at the dead body of the man that seconds ago had had her life between his hands. Her boot meets hard metal instead of the expected soft flesh, the clanking sound enough to make her frown and take a better look at the corpse. She discovers armor and coat of mail, an ornate headdress half off the man’s head.

“This is no peasant,” she mutters.

“No, Your Majesty, see that crest? They’re–”

“Mercenaries,” she concludes, her tone dark as she issues another kick at the corpse, feeling vindicated despite the uselessness of the gesture.

Regina groans, pacing mindlessly for a moment as she tries to settle her thoughts. Her neck is pounding from the abuse, and her chest hasn’t stopped heaving rapidly, her breaths still short and panicked, making it hard to think beyond the oppressive ghost of her attacker holding her in a murderous embrace. Trembling hands reach up again to her neck, to the bruises that are surely already tainting her skin purple, and as she drags the soft pad of her fingers carefully over them, she looks once again at the dead men on the field. Mercenaries, and if Regina knows anything about such foul creatures is that their motives aren’t justice or treason, but merely _money._ And if there’s money, then someone must be paying.

“Where is the girl?” She asks suddenly, turning towards Rudy. “The little girl that brought me here.”

“She ran away, Your Majesty.”

Regina growls at the answer, her movements jerky yet precise when she disappears in a cloud of purple smoke, her apparition in the main square of the village creating a small commotion that she easily ignores. The festival hasn’t stopped in her behalf, but is rather growing in wildness, drinking and dancing giving way to laughter and boisterousness, chaos that confounds Regina as she searches about herself, frantic as her steps take her this way and that, no rhyme or reason to her movements as her eyes scan the crowd for the disloyal child that had led her astray. Furious and clunky limbs drag her down, her movements heavy and sluggish, but she doesn’t allow herself to stop until she catches sight of the girl, hands clasped behind her back as she stares dumbfounded at the bonfire, no care or thought for the woman that she had walked to her death. Regina stalks towards her, and Emeline has but a moment to be surprised before Regina grabs her arm, her hand claw-like against the rough fabric of her dress, even her weakened strength enough to pull a whimper from the child.

“Who put you up to this? Who?” She demands. Regina’s tone is imperious and unforgiving, and paired with the sudden scream Emeline proffers, high-pitched as only an infant’s can be, silence is brought upon the crowd, the lull expanding until even the drums quiet and only the sound of the crepitating fire and of Regina’s heavy breathing fills the air.

“Answer me, child,” Regina insists, shaking the girl’s thin frame violently.

“You’re hurting me,” Emeline whines, her tone bubbling up from between sudden tears, ugly crying that makes her whole body tremble, her chin wobble and her cheeks redden.

She wraps her little hand about Regina’s wrist, futilely trying to free herself from her grasp, and Regina wants to feel something for this child, wants to grasp at the warmth she had instilled in her with nothing but a smile and a few wildflowers, but Regina feels nothing beyond pain, nothing but ache in her limbs and her heart, in a soul so bruised that the last shred of hope this girl has just taken from her feels like the final wound, a sharp stab of a knife twisted so many times that it threatens to kill her.

Her lips settled into an uncomely grimace, Regina’s trembling voice intones, “You hurt me as well.” And she’s shaking the girl again, her grip on her arm tightening as she does so, her free hand moving up and pulling at the fabric of her vest to better expose her bruised neck, insanity brimming under her skin. “You hurt me, too; can’t you see you hurt me, too? Can’t you?”

Emeline’s hysterical crying does nothing to calm her down, rather making her pain recede and give way to anger which settles like a good old friend around her heart, crawling up her spine and all the way up to her throat, its cold grip on her senses forcing her to breathe slower, steadier, to calm her mindless harassing of the little girl before her. She must look like a wild animal, she muses, control escaping the tight grip of her fingers and making her feral, unsettled. She pushes it all back, allowing cold rage to storm inside her instead, to help her gain control over herself and the situation. Fury is, after all, the only emotion that gives her purpose, and she should have known better than to let herself believe otherwise.

She loosens her grip on Emeline’s arm so that she’s simply keeping her in place and crouches down to her level, the watery eyes of the girl following her every move with frightened anticipation. She’s whimpering still, sniffling now even as her tears refuse to abate, and Regina dabs at her cheeks ineffectively, her hand soft but quivering even as she fights herself to keep it firm. She keeps the motion up for a while, though, her fingers growing steadier and the girl’s tears calming down, even as her breathing stutters and her whole frame shakes from the effort.

“Tell me, dear,” Regina begins again, her tone deceptively soft. “Tell me who asked you to take me to that field; I know you didn’t know what you were doing, and I will let you go as soon as you tell me. You just have to tell me, sweetheart.”

Emeline sniffs, scared eyes fighting further tears, but still she speaks, voice shaky as she explains, “Papa said that man and his sister would pay him if I–if I–papa said–”

“Which man, dear? Point him to me.”

The girl does as she’s told, her shaky little finger finding its target and offering Regina the sight of Baron Edgar’s face, his round cheeks blanching with surprise and his shoulders squaring themselves with tension as he sees himself exposed. Next to him, Baroness Irene’s features are a faithful copy of her brother’s, both chubby faces more similar in this moment than Regina has ever known them to be before. Before they can react and perhaps try and flee the scene, Regina’s knights are upon them, the baron’s quiet and spluttering protest of _this is preposterous, how dare you_ bringing a smile to Regina’s lips. She lets go of the girl and scrambles to her feet, her movements purposeful and determined now as she strides towards where the baron and his sister have been brought to their knees, their old age and weak frames never as striking to Regina as in this moment, when they’re so easily falling under her command. They’re both muffling half formed protests, but Regina stops them swiftly when she lifts the baroness’ chin with fingers so tight that she hopes to leave bruises. She looks into the well-known eyes of the woman that had claimed for herself the role of Regina’s best friend and confidante for years, and the fear written in them excites her, brings joy to her heaving chest even as it burns with barely contained anger.

“Tell me something, baroness,” she spits at her face. “Why? After all these years, why would you do such a foolish thing as arranging my murder?”

“Please, Your Majesty, don’t think me so foul, so treacherous; you remain my closest friend, my darling and beautiful girl, my–”

“Oh, shut your trap, you old hag; I’ve spent too many years listening to your redundant blabbering. Tell me the truth or let that pitiful plea be your last words.”

That hardens the baroness, bringing to her eyes the shine that Regina has seen her reserve for the juiciest of gossip, for the most secret of news. The baroness might be a vapid fool, but Regina knows her to be a strong woman with an iron will and stubbornness to match her own, and the thought that the woman is willing to give her the satisfaction of one last confrontation paints a smirk on Regina’s lips. She’s certainly a worthier enemy than her brother, poor Baron Edgar who had once confessed that he thought of her as the sweetest of granddaughters, and who now has his eyes firmly settled on the ground, as if he has already accepted his fate.

“You insult me!” Baroness Irene bellows, her tone loud and unwavering even as she struggles against the hold her knights have on her. “I took you under my wing when no one wanted you, I made you who you are, and _this_ is how you repay me! With insults and grievances, pushing me to the ground like some–some commoner!”

Regina laughs, the sound more like a cackle, as amused as she is offended by the words being thrown at her; the _gall_ of this woman at claiming a hand in Regina’s climb to power.

“Oh baroness,” she murmurs, leaning back down until her face is inches apart from the woman, their eyes firmly on each other’s. “You truly believe such words, don’t you, dear? You _used_ me to inflate your ego, and I used you as the most irritating of stepping stones. And now you dare defy me? Plot my death with mercenaries after I tolerated your gabbing for years, after making you feel important and needed? How very treacherous and disappointing.”

“No! We were friends, the best of friends! And you betrayed me, you betrayed us all! You–You, my dear, the strain of your position has driven you to insanity, but we can mend this, can’t we, child?”

At that, Regina raises a curious eyebrow, and standing up to her full height yet again, she wonders, “Mend this?”

“Yes, my darling, you come live with the baroness, rest your troubled mind until you feel better, let the kingdom be ruled by its rightful queen and put all this in the past. Wouldn’t that be dreamy, darling child? Tea and pastries and nothing to worry about?”

“The _rightful_ queen!? You would _dare_ speak to me of Snow White is such terms.”

A chorus of agreements begins around her, pulling her attention from the baroness and her brother as a cacophony of incongruous hoots of Snow White’s name grows by the second. It’s an incandescent moment of rebellion, of nobles and commoners united under one single flag, one which proudly praises Snow’s name and derides her own, one which is more than ready to see her own head stuck on a pike. Regina turns furious eyes towards Baroness Irene, a boastful smile conquering previously pale cheeks even as the yelling dies completely, only ghostly whispers remaining around her. Her hands tremble at the sight, red hot anger burning up inside her chest when she thinks of the stories told for this woman’s benefit, of the hours spent with false smiles plastered to her face, of the tears shed to be thought of as nothing but a weak and pathetic victim of everyone else’s whims. What a powerful lie it must have been if the baroness truly thinks her insane and Snow the necessary replacement, and what a stinging betrayal this feels like. After all, commoners bred on fear of witchcraft may reject her, but if this noblewoman dares do the same, the surely there is no hope for Regina at all.

Her eyes find Baroness Irene’s one more time, and when the woman smiles at her, something bumbling and tender, as if Regina is but a small animal gone insane and in need of a caring hand, as if there is more truth to the mild creature she played during her years surrounded by the court than to the woman she truly is, Regina fumes. Her fist shakes, magic pulsing through it and demanding retribution, her fury asking her for blood, for a show of strength so undeniable that no one dares lay a hand on her again, or suggest that she is anything less than the lawful queen of these lands. The thought of the weight of the baroness’ heart in her hand is tempting but somehow weirdly unsatisfying, her instincts calling not for the coldness of magic but for something else altogether. Briskly, Regina moves past her kneeling prisoners until she has her hand wrapped around the hilt of one of her knight’s swords. She pulls it out, the steel unfamiliar to the touch but the weight of it remarkably fulfilling. She holds it up and without a second thought, pushes it against the skin of the baroness’ neck, burying the weapon into her flesh rather than simply cutting at it, thrusting it forward until it’s buried to the hilt. It’s harder that Regina would have ever imagined, and so the movement is slow, torturous for the baroness, who chokes on her own blood, gurgling as she takes her last breaths. Blood pools at their feet, staining the bottom of Regina’s jacket and boots, splashing her when she drops the sword to the ground, the clanking sound grotesque against the reigning silence. 

Hands stained with blood and eyes blazing with ire, she turns to the crowd, and pointing at the baroness’ body, heavy and sagging in death, she states, “She made her choice and paid the price for her treason. The rest of you _will_ choose better.”

 

* * *

 

Irritation gnaws at her more insistently than anything else, pounding away at what’s already a heavy migraine and making her chest burn with increasing rawness. As she travels back towards the castle, very little seems to matter beyond the steady beat of her headache and the tension that has her biting her lower lip steadily, restless energy that she doesn’t have purpose for. She finds herself curling her hands against the heavy fabric of her jacket, wishing to tear at it, to rid herself of its weight and the bloodstains it carries, sign of unexpected betrayal and crushed hopes. How foolish she’d been, and how absurd she feels now.

Next to her, her lady’s maid is doing a relentless yet futile effort at rubbing calming salve on her bruises. Regina wishes for the physical pain to take over every other feeling, however, to mollify her like nothing else will. After all, she knows that the moment she steps her way into the palace her prisoners will follow; Baron Edgar and the little girl’s parents that will spend whatever little time of night there is left in her dungeons and will be executed in the morning, the little girl herself made into a kitchen’s maid now that she’s to be an orphan – and honestly, that they would call Regina a heartless tyrant, when she forgives that which had been made into a tool of her damnation. The culprits’ death, along with the baroness’ blood staining her clothing should be enough to bring sedative calm to her senses, and yet it fails to do so, the bigger picture of the treachery she’s been subjected to only aggravating the throbbing in her head, and the burning outrage in her chest.

Father is looking at her with concern etched in his eyes, and even when he’s been holding her hand since they settled inside the carriage, providing soft comfort where her lady’s maid is fussing around her wounds, Regina spies the fear hiding at the corner of his wavering gaze. His hand is stained with blood now, sticky from touching Regina’s, and she knows the thought must make him sick – that his daughter could be a coldblooded killer, that she should feel no regret or guilt over the lives taken, that she should call her acts rightful justice. She holds onto his hand anyway, tight and unyielding where his touch had meant softness, whether to be able to feel some of his gentle warmth or whether to punish him for daring to judge her, Regina doesn’t know. She holds on though, if only because the more her irritation grows, the more mother invades her thoughts, half-learned lessons and harsh punishments swirling inside her mind with every heartbeat, with every breath. She would have been disappointed at her unwise ideas and auspicious dreams, and even after the bloodshed would have condemned her to days hidden away in the darkness of a dank cellar. Regina thinks she may have just deserved such a punishment, and the thought makes her sick.

“Stop the carriage,” she orders, her voice weak and trembling so that she feels compelled to repeat herself in a firmer tone. “Stop the carriage!”

She stumbles out before the horses can fully stop their movement, and her jump propels her forward and onto the dusty ground, her knees meeting the hard soil first and her hands following, the pain of the scrapes that have surely been carved into her skin insignificant when her stomach feels as if it wants to roll away from her body, and pushes vile up her throat until she’s coughing up vomit onto the edge of the trail. The effort brings tears to her eyes, and Regina rubs at them ineffectively, her blood covered hands grotesque when trying to drive away her disgust. Father and her lady’s maid are by her side in an instant, two heavy hands at her back and soothing words that she can’t understand, her head pounding and dizzy and the pain at her neck suddenly overwhelming, bruises on her skin and rawness at the inside of her throat. She’s sweaty, she realizes, her forehead and the back of her neck drenched, and her whole frame seems to tremble all of a sudden, weakness punching at every part of her body. _How pathetic_ , she thinks, when the smell of sickness wafts up her nose and her body spasm again, trying to retch when there must be nothing left in her stomach.

Unbidden, the thought of her attacker comes to mind, too strong hands robbing her of breath and a firm body holding her still, and in her light-headed mind they muddle with thoughts of Leopold’s hands holding her hips down, of Snow’s unwanted embraces and hands guiding her towards undesirable paths. That she ever thought to forgive them, to let them go in exchange for the flighty respect of unknown crowds – she laughs at the thought, but the sound is weak and maddened. She hugs herself, trembling hands around a trembling frame, cold sweat permeating her skin.

“I’m so cold,” she murmurs. “So cold.”

Her lady’s maid murmurs something to her, or maybe to father, his kneeling figure by her side a testament of his love when his knees have brought nothing but pain for years now. They’re speaking of baths and sleep, of rest and food, but all Regina can think about is mother, her disapproving gaze and how she would reprimand her for such a pitiful display. Regina can’t help but agree with mother’s overbearing ghost, though, and so she finds herself standing up on shaky legs and fighting her whirling senses, delirium taking over when she could swear that mother’s figure is a tangible reality and not a figment of her imagination.

“I will endure, mother, I will endure,” she whispers, over and over again, lips shaping her words until they become a single string of mindlessness, even as father looks upon her with sadness so heavy that it threatens to push her back to her knees. She repeats them as she feels hands guiding her back into the carriage and to rest against father’s bony shoulder, repeats them until her eyes close, and sleep claims her.

 

* * *

 

The first weeks of fall bring with them strong winds and changing colors, the dark reds and browns of the season putting an end to the heat of summer and to whatever spell had been cast on the palace on those last few weeks, one so thoughtless and absurd that Regina thinks she will never again enjoy the brightness of sunrays illuminating a blue sky. It seems fitting, that she should dwell in the dreary coldness of fall and winter, when death lingers in the air. The shortened days find her despondent, secluded within the walls of the palace as she eagerly awaits news of Snow White’s capture only to receive frustrating failures instead. She busies herself with kingdom business, dragging tired eyes over accounts and inventories, working not towards the benefit of the kingdom, but towards the preservation of her own sanity. It barely helps, but it seems entirely more productive than wasting away in her bedchambers in the embrace of warm wine.

Despite recent events, the kingdom thrives, rich in crops and marbles, proficient in its ways as it has been since Regina took its reins. Nonetheless, Snow fails to remain its single villain, the band of Robin Hood and his Merry Men giving her more than one headache, and her persecution of them entirely more persistent than the petty thievery they have been engaging on demands. It’s a matter of principle, mostly, considering how their morally ambiguous ideas of justice seem to be giving vapid hope to a kingdom that thinks itself oppressed. _Robbing from the rich and giving to the poor,_ a ludicrous ideal that translates into chaos and very little else, and that never fails to make Regina want to snort in the most unladylike way possible. Regardless of the buffoonery of her latest foes, Regina can’t help but think of what little she knows of the leader of the ragtag band, a man known for his hood and his precise bow and arrow, the thought of it tingling at the corner of her mind, bringing forward blue-grey eyes that had enchanted her for a too long moment in the brief respite before the Summer Festival had gone sour. She rejects the thought adamantly; how pathetically stupid, if she’d been so enchanted by a _thief._

As many a headache as bandits and thieves give her, nothing manages to be quite as disturbing and groan-inducing as what she’s already began to think of as her wolf. The unpleasant animal might have once belonged to the huntsman, but if it’s to torture her so, then she may as well lay claim to it and its howls. It dumfounds her, that the animal should prove impossible to catch and that its howl should reverberate so inside the walls of the palace, like another ghost to add to those of her mother and step-daughter. There had been a time when she’d been fascinated by wolves, by the tales of mystery and magic surrounding their figures, and Regina remembers herself, still wide-eyed and naïve despite her losses and tribulations, listening to Rumpelstiltskin tell of their mythological origins, of how they were thought to be the ancestors of all humans roaming the earth, of how witches once used them as mounts. They had seemed magical to her then, and now she thinks that at least this one must be, perhaps possessed by the spirit of her ill-fated dreams, and made to persecute her until she drives herself mad, or manages to kill Snow once and for all.

All her efforts towards killing the thing have certainly proven fruitless, even when her knights have brought enough wolves’ heads to her that she could fill an entire chamber with the grisly trophies. She sends them to the huntsman instead, has them thrown into his cell so he can watch his beloved animals rot before his eyes, hopeful that it causes pain even when the severed parts don’t belong to his faithful companion. Truth be told, Regina gathers morbid pleasure from torturing the huntsman, as she once had from making Leopold flinch. Such pleasure she had discovered the day after the Summer Festival, when in a fit of sudden rage at having her peace disturbed by the wolf’s cries, she had ordered the huntsman bathed and groomed before having him sent to have dinner with her. She had been bathing at the time, still covered in grime and blood from the unfortunate events of the festival, her mouth still feeling rotten from being sick on the road, and she had traipsed her way out of the warm water, naked and angry, with red still marring her skin, a savage beast if she had ever been one, just so she could bark two orders, one to a flushing and desperately fidgety guard, and one to her lady’s maid.

“Bring me that wolf’s head or so help me I will have yours instead!” And her guard had ran off with such haste that hadn’t she been so insanely unstable, she would have laughed.

“And fetch me the huntsman, let us see how he feels about sharing his dinner with the queen.” Wrinkling her nose, thoughtful, she’d added, “Have him bathed and groomed properly, I won’t have him smelling of dungeon at my table.”

That night the huntsman had refused to both eat and talk, and Regina, who had harbored secret desire of asking for his true reasons behind his leniency towards Snow, had instead remained silent as well, content to sit with him and eat slowly as he gazed upon her. She’d issued orders that he’d disregarded, and eventually she had simply enjoyed her own meal in the knowledge that he was uncomfortable in her presence, and torturing himself with his refusal of a warm meal. He’d certainly looked worse for the wear after a year in her dungeons despite her lady’s maid’s best efforts at dressing him in fresh clothes and trimming his hair and beard, the sharp handsomeness of his face all but gone and replaced by gaunt cheeks and hollow eyes. Following evenings spent together had proved fruitless in Regina’s efforts to make him eat, and while she had considered simply issuing her order to his trapped heart, she’d realized that there was no real thrill to the action; she wants him to willingly bend to her will.

“Perhaps I should just starve you to death, if you won’t eat with me,” she’d stated one night, irritation clear in every syllable of every word, and in the tight grip she’d had on her fork. Where Regina had expected bright fear, the huntsman had given her a shiny and hopeful gaze, which had only made her huff. If what he wanted was reprieve from this life, then that would be the last thing she gave him.

Ever since that first night, she has instilled two nights a week to dine with him, his despondency towards her almost a challenge. That she would choose such a frequency twists something inside her gut, as if it should be meaningful and she doesn’t understand why, but despite the confounding bitterness it awakens in her, she ignores it easily enough. And so, she pushes and prods at him, even if she’s not particularly sure of what she’s trying to accomplish. Maleficent had told her that she could do with a pet, and she supposes the huntsman will just have to do.

The huntsman breaks his silence on a night just like any other, one that finds Regina with frazzled nerves and twitching hands. Just that afternoon, a party of her knights had come back with news of catching sight of the lost princess at a werewolves’ lair of all places. Along with the news they had brought injured arms and legs, arrows firmly etched in bloodied wounds, and the body of her ever-faithful Rudy, brought to death by savage bites. Had it not been for that she might have rained rage upon her failing knights, but the sight of Rudy’s body had stricken her with grief instead, the kind giant who had saved her from the mercenaries not so long ago. He had been one of her first recruits, one of the group of six that had become her Black Guard so many years back, and she had taken him under her wing even when he’d been a well-known thief. He’d only stolen to feed his younger brother, a smiling ten year old that had lost a hand in some dreadful accident, and who no one had wanted around for long, even when Rudy had promised to work in exchange for food and shelter. Regina had given him a black uniform and his brother a place in her stables, where he had proven to be more capable than others with all their limbs intact.

This afternoon, the older brother lies dead while the younger grieves him, and Regina’s nerves are all over the place, more frustrated than she’s angry, her frame heavy with all the lives lost in Snow’s name. By the time she sits at her table and next to the huntsman, she’s looking at her hands rather than at her amusement for the night, fingers that refuse to stop quivering unsettling her. She considers her hands, small yet mightier than armies, and wonders at Snow and the power she holds over her regardless, that even running away scared and resourceless people would fight a war in her name, would lay down their lives for her, willingly and without request, and most of all without hope for victory. She grimaces at the thought, but rather than dwell on it, she’s abruptly thrown away from her contemplation by the howling of the vexatious wolf. She jumps, and then berates herself for being surprised when the animal never fails to make its presence known whenever the huntsman visits her table.

“That wolf!” she exclaims, failing to find more creative expletives with a mind still sluggish from the afternoon’s events.

“He is a faithful companion,” the huntsman says then, breaking his silence with a voice uncomfortably raspy from lack of use and a bit of a mocking smile painted on his whitish lips.

Turning half-lidded eyes towards him, Regina replies, “And I’m sure it will make for a lovely rug.”

That steals his smile away, an ugly grimace contorting his face instead. He says nothing else, though, refusing to jump at the provocation, and Regina scowls even as her eyes roam his features. He’s too dispassionate to be completely amusing, and Regina wonders if he’s always been like this or if it’s consequence of his lack of heart. He hadn’t seemed particularly expressive or lively when they had met before, but then again, Regina had thought him a heartless murderer, and he’d worn the title with ease. He’d killed a man in the name of his wolf, and yet he’d refused to kill Snow White; the thought remains equal parts disappointing and infuriating, and it manages to deepen Regina’s scowl. She looks away from him, though, choosing instead to look at the table between them. The scent of food doesn’t entice her today, and she finds herself reaching for her goblet instead, hoping that the tangy taste of apple cider will awaken her senses enough for her to stomach a little something at least.

“Why do you do this?” The huntsman asks her suddenly, drawing her attention back to him when his question is followed by some terrible-sounding coughs, like she’s only ever heard on too old or sick people. She wonders, briefly, if he’s fallen ill after so long living in cold dungeons and being barely fed on bread and water, and then chooses not to care. She _is_ offering him reprieve that he refuses to take, after all.

The bout of coughing recedes, and when his frame has stopped shaking and he’s staring back at her, she answers his question with a shrug, her own shoulders sagging under unwanted weight, the events of the afternoon so heavy on her mind that she feels them physically dragging her down. She owes him no explanation for her actions, after all, and truth be told, her reasons for these little meetings of hers she would rather not contemplate too deeply. It’s true that she eats better when accompanied, and such reality she has accepted as a curse for a long time now, but she doesn’t want to think of her refusal to sit with father instead, choosing not to occupy her thoughts with the way father has been looking at her as of late. As if she has truly lost her mind, as if her vengeance is but the last resort of a desperate soul.

Distractedly, she peruses the table before her, wondering if there might be something worth the effort. Some fruit, perhaps. The huntsman’s thoughts seem to follow her own, and after weeks of strong-willed resistance, something breaks in him, and Regina watches him reaching forward for fine cutlery, interest shining in his starved eyes as he studies what must be a feast before her eyes. The corner of Regina’s lips crooks upwards unwittingly, a childish sense of glee invading her at the small victory over his spirit. After a careful moment, he ignores soft venison meat and scented fish in favor of bland steamed vegetables and serves himself a few well-selected pieces of cabbage, beetroot and endives, effectively making Regina wrinkle her nose when he carefully bites into one, something like bliss crossing his features. The only reasons such flavorless and dry things cross her table is the insistence of her lady’s maid, who holds the opinion that vegetables cooked along with meat and fish are somehow worse for her. Regina never eats them, and her lady’s maid, always a fierce defender that her foul mood comes from her terrible eating habits, never fails to silently berate her for it.

In the face of the huntsman’s bliss, and feeling like celebrating after he’s finally ceded to her wishes, Regina fights her own despondency away and helps herself to a small serving of lemon-scented trout, finally and for the first time finding herself sharing a meal with the man before her. They eat in silence, barely looking upon one another, as if they are both prisoners and jailors at the same time, unsure of why the two of them should ever find themselves breaking bread. The huntsman eats little and slow, obviously unused to big meals after a year of living in the dungeons, and Regina stops herself from overindulging, foregoing sweets as dessert and picking at some grapes instead. She offers one to the huntsman when she finds him looking at her, and smiles with satisfaction when he takes it from her, a good little pet beginning to please his master. He munches at it questioningly, and when Regina realizes that he must have never tasted such a thing, she wonders about him fleetingly, about the person he was before they crossed paths, about the man that so conquered a beast’s heart. She pushes the thoughts away fast, though, knowing that thinking about him as more than her prisoner may just tempt her to give back his heart and let him go.

“Why won’t you just kill me?” He wonders after he’s done with the fruit, his frame resting heavily against the chair, probably a thousand times more comfortable than the floor of his cell.

Regina shrugs, dropping the rest of the uneaten fruit back on her plate and allowing her lips to form a tiny pout when she answers, “Because it’s not fun if you want it.”

He looks at her helplessly then, his eyes round and anguished, made all the more sad by the gauntness of his cheeks. “Won’t you stop killing the wolves, at least?” Then, as if an afterthought, he adds, “Your Majesty.”

He looks the same way he did that first night, when Regina had him taken to her bedchambers after she’d claimed his heart, unsure of what her thoughts had been at the time. He’d seemed so pathetic to her then, eyes so destitute that he had managed to fill her with disgust, not at him but at herself, at whatever monster he had seen standing before him. She’d sent him to the dungeons in an instant, and tonight, she feels tempted to do the same. His defenselessness is more prominent with how weak his frame looks, and Regina has the sudden urge to force feed him, to have him swallow everything on her table until he recovers the delicate allure he’d once possessed. She fights her impulses, and rather laughs when he speaks again.

“I will beg,” is his adamant statement.

There’s near desperation in him, and Regina is surprised that a man lacking his heart should feel so much. Perhaps it is but a remnant of what he once felt, but his hopelessness is nearly tangible.

“How boring; peasants begging as if they were free of sin,” Regina counters, ignoring her own instincts in favor of refusing him instead. He deserves nothing from her, after all.

“What would you have me do, then?”

Curling her hands around the arms of her chair, suddenly bristled by the request, she nearly shouts when she demands, “I would have you lead the charge against Snow White! Do what you were brought here to do in the first place!”

He deflates, as if she’s asked the impossible of him, but such an answer only angers her further. It burns fast and white, and when her hand reaches forward towards him, curled into a purposeful claw that she sets upon his chest, he brings his own hand to her wrist, steadying her movement with a surprisingly strong grip. It’s not a shackle, not as heavy as others she has worn, but it makes her skin crawl unpleasantly.

“What would you take that you haven’t already taken?” He asks, his tone ever so soft, as if speaking to a dumb child.

Regina laughs, at her impulse and his reaction, at the disgust so clearly etched into every line of his face, at the sudden fury hidden in his eyes, more true to his heartless chest than the vulnerability he had exuded just moments before. Regina likes it, far more than she has liked any look given to her in weeks, and she wonders at herself, at how she would rather be despised for the person she is than loved for the person that she is not. Let him think her a monster if he will, let the world agree with him; better a monster than a defenseless weakling, for no one dares defy the former.

Regina pulls until she can free herself from his grip, his refusal to let go only making her smile, the scratch of his nails when she finally drags her wrist away strangely satisfactory. He leaves nothing but red marks behind, and Regina is proficient enough in bruises that she knows they will have faded away by tomorrow morning. Tonight she will treasure them, though, will find morbid pleasure in having teased the huntsman away from his boundless gloom.

“You’re insane,” he mutters.

“And rather bored with you as well,” she counters, allowing her weight to fall sloppily on the back her chair, tiredness claiming her with sudden momentum. The day has been far too long, and her restless sleeping of the past few weeks is finally taking its toll. “Get out,” she murmurs, her order failing at sounding imperious.

“Isn’t Her Majesty worried I will run away?”

Regina would laugh, the huntsman’s sudden rebellion nothing if not amusing, but she can feel a headache pushing at the back of her skull, and tonight feels like victory enough to have it ended before she manages to tire of him entirely. They will have time to talk either way, now that he has finally deemed her deserving of his words. Twice a week, she thinks, and the thought again sits bitterly at the pit of her stomach.

“I have your heart, dear; even if you were to survive my army, I would just… call you back to me.”

She’s not looking at him when he leaves, the heavy thump of her chamber’s doors closing behind him enough to enliven her migraine. She presses her fingers to the bridge of her nose and pinches mercilessly, hoping for reprieve from the pain and unworried by the wandering huntsman, knowing that there are guards at her door ready to fetch him and send him back to the dungeons. The thought of him lingers, though, of this man that was the beginning of a rebellion against her and crowned with Snow’s name, and whose presence she’s seemingly torturing herself with, as if she wants them to punish each other for the wounds inflicted. He’d betrayed her trust and she’d taken her heart, after all, and now all they have left is a meeting of ever-growing bitterness twice a week. Twice a week, Regina thinks as she trudges her way heavily towards her bed, foregoing nightclothes in favor of sliding her heated skin under fresh linens. She feels feverish, wonders if she may be sick after all, swirling and pervasive thoughts scratching at a pounding head. Twice a week, and she feels dizzy. Twice a week, and she realizes, a bitter laugh crossing parted lips, how that was the regularity of Leopold’s visits to her bed. And as her laughter gives way to traitorous tears, stealing sleep away from her tired frame, she thinks, _I must truly be a monster, after all._

 

* * *

 

Daniel died on an uncommonly warm fall night, and Regina remembers because even as she covered herself with a thin cape for their journey away from the manor, the fabric had felt heavy around her shoulders, unnecessary for such a night. She’d thought it an omen of good fortune, that they should have such wonderfully rare warmth when they were leaving everything they knew behind. She almost never thinks about it, the excitement of packing a small bundle of clothes, hands nervous yet busy, heart beating wildly and cheeks flushed a rosy color. It had all been buried under the tragedy, after all, the image of Daniel crumbling into her arms, breath and life gone from his body, far more powerful than that of her youthful enthusiasm. More powerful for all the wrong reasons, but powerful nonetheless.

Today, eleven years after light went away from Daniel’s eyes, the weather is warm as well. A little windy, perhaps, foreboding one would say. It doesn’t matter much, though, not when it’s a day made gloom by grief and loss. Many years ago, she hadn’t understood attaching heartache to one day in particular, not when back then all she’d had was anguish and despair carving itself into every fiber of her being, overpowering every other emotion, clinging to her every step. After so much time, though, when kingdoms and lost princesses claim her every thought, she thinks she understands the need to stop the world for one single day, for memories and woeful heartbreak, for that which is forever lost. So she visits the small stone set up in Daniel’s memory, and on her way, she thinks of that night, impossibly tangled in her memories with pain so sharp that even tears feel like a too small tribute to what was destroyed.

She thinks she had felt regret at leaving the manor behind, seventeen and too afraid of an unknown world where only Daniel’s hand firmly held within hers would protect her. Mostly, she had regretted forcing Daniel to leave his family behind when he didn’t completely comprehend Regina’s fear at denying her mother’s wishes. Sweet Daniel, who still grieved the father he had lost at a too young age, who had grown up under the gruffly kind hand of his grandfather, who had a mother that wanted to give him the world, and who had only gotten glimpses of the darkness within Regina’s household, of mother’s wishes and the terror hidden behind them. He hadn’t understood and Regina had done very little to explain, incapable of sketching for him who her mother truly was with simple words.

“You love her dearly, though, milady, I can tell,” he’d said once, arm warm around her as they sat on the grass of Firefly Hill, thousands of lights above them illuminating matching smiles.

Regina had never known how to tell him how scared she truly was that for all the things mother wanted and expected from her, love wasn’t one of them. Talent, effort, poise, ambition, and in not one of her speeches had mother ever spoken of love. Regina had always suspected that mother would forever choose a powerful daughter that hated her over a weak one who loved her, and she had never known how to reveal such thoughts to Daniel, who had nothing but kind eyes to set upon the world. That night, though, Regina had spared little thought to mother, and had squashed whatever traitorous twinge of remorse she’d felt at leaving father behind, positively sure that both her and Daniel would find themselves in the loving embrace of their families soon enough. They would get married as soon as possible, she’d thought, and once Daniel’s ring was on her finger, nothing else would matter, and no one would be able to tear them apart, no matter how diminishing of her position Regina’s choice was, or how cheap the ring. They would go on to love each other, to be happy, and perhaps, with time, mother would regard Regina’s choice and accept how far her daughter’s wishes had fallen from her own.

Today, in the soft blue light of the morning, a warm fall day like that one had been, Daniel’s ring rests between Regina’s breasts, a promise never to be fulfilled. And it is today, of course, that mother chooses to come back, a ghost from a past that Regina can’t run away from, no matter how many armies she settles upon her palace’s doors.

 

* * *

 

“What is this, dear?” Mother questions the first night they spend together, a twitch to her eyebrow when she looks down at the concoction filling up her plate.

It’s meat and rice, a simple recipe if not for the dressing Regina has been ordering specially made for her table for years now, strong vinegar mixed with spicy peppers and garlic, the smell of it so rich that it’s almost solid. Regina likes it, the bitter tanginess of it always managing to erase any other flavor from her mouth, but tonight, as mother stares at her, she fumbles with her words, mumbling a very unconvincing, “Oh, I’m not truly sure of wha–”

“Honestly dear, you should know better,” mother interrupts, wrinkling her nose as if in need of a physical gesture to express the magnitude of her disgust. “Always keep an eye on your kitchen staff.”

Regina wants to huff, protest that she can hardly watch over every little thing in the palace when she has a kingdom to rule, but she bites her tongue, teeth harsh against her own flesh, and swallows down both reactions, doing her best at covering them with a slight nod that she hopes doesn’t come off as tense as it feels to her. Mother hates excuses, after all, and Regina wants to believe that she doesn’t need to explain herself. She straightens her back, trying to remind herself of who she is, _what_ she is, but the gesture reminds her instead of the hard discipline of youth, making her feel juvenile instead. She pushes the food ineffectively around her plate, and fights the urge to pout.

Mother says very little, and Regina remains quiet as well, preferring the stifling silence to the possibility of provoking the woman before her. They hadn’t parted in the best of terms, one would say, and Regina doesn’t know what mother may truly want, even if her demeanor doesn’t seem particularly vengeful. Regina wants to believe that there’s no ulterior motive to her presence here, but she knows better than to allow herself to be fooled into a sense of false security. They eat in silence, the family dinner mother had insisted upon at her arrival at the palace an inadequate imitation of what they had once been, unfamiliar after so many years of separation. Regina can’t help but glance interminently at father, his frame smaller than ever as he tries to hide himself away, awkwardness in his every movement as he takes slow sips of water and very little else, hands that never have looked so old to Regina shaking. He catches her eye, and Regina smiles, wishing that she could spare him the cumbersome burden of mother’s presence. _Family_ , and Regina truly doesn’t know if there has ever been a more inadequate group of people to refer to as such – she’s jittery enough that even dinner with Leopold and Snow seems like a better memory than this.

Regina has settled them in one of the big halls, where Leopold used to host his big feasts with the court, the vague hope that mother may appreciate the sumptuousness promptly smothered by the haughty look thrown at the too long dinner table, adorned with a bright red tablecloth that is dusty from lack of use. Regina glares at it, secretly hoping that it sets itself on fire and liberates them from the awkwardness of the reunion mother has forced upon them. Regina regrets choosing such a sprawling room, the coldness of it only augmenting the coldness settled among them, the white and black marbles that she’d so enthusiastically refurnished the palace with making her feel as if they’re dwelling inside a giant tomb, three spirits of dead people clinging to old traditions that they no longer have any connection to. She wishes for a sip of wine, but mother had never condoned drinking at the dinner table, or very much at all, so there is nothing but water available. Perhaps she’d hated the loss of control, and while Regina may be inclined to agree on any given day, tonight she finds that overindulging in abundant liquor may be the right answer to her plight. Inescapably, Maleficent comes to mind, and when Regina imagines what mother’s thoughts might be on their nights of alcohol and sex she can’t help but snort, feeling like a teenager with a dirty secret.

The noise sets mother’s eyes upon her, her short, muttered _dear?_ enough to make Regina’s chest brim with unbidden fear unlike she has felt since she was a child. She covers her misstep with a few well-placed coughs, pretending that the food that she’s not actually eating has troubled her throat, and even as she plays up her part with studied precision, she finds herself anxiously pressing her thumb to her opposing palm, forcing the pain to bring her back to the present. She feels breathless regardless, and as mother’s eyes sweep over her features, she reminds herself that this is her palace and not mother’s manor, and that there are no dark cellars where anyone would dare trap her.

“Are you done, dear?”

Regina blinks, surprised at the question, and hates that it takes her a moment to gather her wits. She feels sluggish and slightly disoriented, but she’s not surprised when she looks down at her plate and finds it full. She pushes it back, and softly, she answers, “Yes, mother.”

“Then let’s take a walk; show me your gardens.”

And so they walk, silent but together, arms locked and steps leisurely. After that night, mother doesn’t leave, and her presence is more stifling than hundreds of court members had once been, judgmental even when she’s infinite rooms away, pervasive in the new atmosphere that seemingly takes over the palace. Rumors are flying by the second day of mother’s stay, her stern character and serious eyes gathering more commentary among the servants than even Regina’s ill-tempered outbursts had at one point. It seems to Regina that she has taken over the household by that point, maids being handled and dismissed without Regina’s knowledge, the kitchens being tightly reorganized under mother’s watchful gaze. Her council bears the brunt of mother’s scrutiny as well, Duchess Adela being the only one capable of holding a conversation with her without withering under her gaze. At some point during mother’s campaign of terror, Regina catches the Treasury Master, that poor young fellow that could barely even look at Regina’s eyes a few weeks ago, quite literally running away from her. Regina would have laughed at the ridiculous sight, had it not been for her own wish of following his path.

“Perhaps Your Majesty should consider putting your mother’s wisdom to good use on some other fields,” her Military Advisor murmurs at her one afternoon, his tone low and careful, as if afraid that mother will appear behind every corner. “Away from the council, perhaps?”

Regina groans for an answer, knowing fairly well that mother’s disapproval at Regina’s acquired taste for her militia had cost the man a rather subtle reprimand on his character as both a man and a military leader. Regina doesn’t have time for his complaints, though, not when she finds herself anticipating mother’s moods and actions, and hiding away that which she wishes to keep secret, the first being George’s impossibly frustrating letters and marriage proposals, which she burns swiftly without even delighting herself with reading and mocking them, the way she has been doing as of late. Truth be told, she’s certain that George is insisting on his quest out of sheer stubbornness, but the idea that mother may catch sight of such proposals and somehow push her into another marriage has her running around like a headless chicken, her mother’s persuasive ways more frightening than a mercenary stealing her breath away.

Regina stops her dinners with the huntsman as well, feeling them diminishing all of a sudden, her little game with a prisoner and a commoner shameful when she puts it under a different perspective. That she misses his dispassionate looks and his raspy voice she only takes as proof of how rattled she is by mother’s presence; that she sends him a rich meal twice a week even as he remains in the dungeons she explains to herself as an act of ill-advised rebellion.

Any which way, Regina’s dinners are now a grand affair of discomfort and bland meals, taken with mother in one of the big halls. Mother’s insistence on such occasions feels to Regina like capricious torment, moments to be further scrutinized without clear purpose. Father manages to escape them, though, mother’s interest in him non-existent, and allowing him the freedom lurking around the shadows of the palace, making himself scarce until Regina almost forgets about his presence, if not for how she feels weaker in his absence. She resents him, too, childlike betrayal filling her chest at being abandoned and in mother’s clutches, particularly when she still feels so shaken from the events of the Summer Festival.

Regina wants to defy mother, she thinks, but she fears that the side of her that pushes her into action is her most childish one, ready to take arms and yell and pout and stomp her feet, prepared to throw a tantrum at the invasion she is being put through, at mother’s hands reshaping the world that Regina has worked to own for so many years now. She doesn’t, though, and the palace that she has so adamantly imprinted herself in begins to feel stifling, the same inescapable darkness that had hung above her childhood home present now in every nook and cranny, in every face that she crosses paths with.

And if it’s her childhood that she must return to, then Regina fights it as best as she knows how, escaping to the large fields of the Royal State atop _Rocinante,_ riding away in the hopes that the air flushing her skin and her limbs growing tired from the effort will somehow calm her swirling thoughts and her mingled emotions, will give her an answer to a question that she doesn’t dare ask. She escapes to Maleficent one night as well, and if she’s not Daniel and youthful love then at least she offers reprieve, sweet wine and nonsensical words in front of her fire making her realize how trapped she feels within her own roof now that mother has taken over it with such quiet and swift efficiency. She feels mother’s gaze heavy on her next morning, and Regina bristles under it, knowing herself unfairly criticized; she is a queen, not a child, and she shouldn’t allow mother such power over her. She’s angry, she realizes, angry at the nightmares that still take the shape of mother’s figure, at lessons carved on undeserving skin, at a fate chosen for her with no consideration for her true wishes, at mother stealing her breath away when her chest had finally began to expand again. _And yet._

And yet mother insists on taking long walks with her through the gardens, a soft tilt to her head and a considering look about her, as if she’s learning Regina anew, deciding who this woman her daughter has turned into is, appraising her worth under a new light. They barely speak as they roam the beautifully browned pathways of the palace’s gardens, and Regina unwittingly finds herself yearning for Snow and her mindless blabbering, for how easily she filled Regina’s silences with too much excitement and enthusiasm. The feeling hits her with such abrupt strength that Regina has to make an effort to remind herself of how she had hated Snow invading her space without asking for permission, how she had developed an uncanny talent for giving the right answers while barely listening to what was being said. Nevertheless, Snow’s chattering allowed her mind to wander aimlessly, while mother’s silences don’t allow any reprieve. It’s with unwitting pain, too, that Regina realizes that their silence is but the result of years of orders and lessons and very little else; how terribly sad, that she doesn’t know what she could possibly speak about with her mother.

Regina watches her closely during their time together, and she finds that her memories of her are oddly wooden, as if mother were but a fictional construct of a book read long ago. She realizes that she has picked her remembrances of mother at will, pushing away the darkest of thoughts and choosing instead lessons to use and the comfort of her phantom approval, wondering very little about the destiny Regina had condemned her to as payment for the pain caused. She knows very little of the woman walking by her side, but she doesn’t dare ask, half afraid that mother is seeking revenge for Regina’s misconduct, half hopeful that maybe she simply wishes to recover what they had once lost. In the name of the latter, Regina may just get used to her overbearing presence, may even learn to rely on her guiding hand once again.

Weeks later, once mother is gone and has left nothing but pain in her wake, Regina will look at such a thought as the beginning of the end, as the moment in which mother had settled her hand around Regina’s heart like a claw, squeezing with such delicate expertise that Regina had been helpless to stop her, and to stop herself from falling into childhood behaviors like a well-trained animal. Mother fools her, and she fools her with ease, making every gesture one of secret affection in Regina’s eyes, making her attentions into gifts devoid of an ulterior motive, using Regina’s weaknesses and doubts with cold disregard.

“Rumpel taught you well,” mother tells her one late afternoon as Regina absentmindedly makes a few leaves swirl around on the ground, the magic thoughtless and arbitrary, a simple outlet for what is but a sixth sense for her. It’s a compliment and it comes with a smile, one that Regina can’t help but answer in kind.

Next day, as they sit together on a stone bench that Regina knows offers the most beautiful view of the garden, mother tells her, “You are very lonely, aren’t you, my dear?”

Regina opens her eyes at the question, the crookedly delicate sound of mother’s voice feeling as dangerous as the trap of a spider, and all Regina manages to answer is a doubtful, “Mother?”

Mother pushes Regina’s preoccupations away when she reaches for her, finding her hands with her own and tangling them together in a loose hold, allowing them to rest on Regina’s lap. Mother’s hands are still calloused, Regina realizes, all her years as royalty insufficient to erase her past, her lowly origins. There’s a lesson in there somewhere, but the thought escapes Regina at the sweetness of the gesture, the first sign mother has given of wanting something other than managing Regina’s life for her. It doesn’t last long, but then mother’s hands don’t leave her completely, instead travelling up until her knuckles are resting softly on Regina’s cheek, gentle affection that makes her chest pound, that makes her throat impossibly tight. She leans into it, closes her eyes to better enjoy the caress and realizes that no matter the years, no matter the doubts, no matter how much pain they cause each other, Regina will never deny mother the tenderness of her devotion. She sighs, softly, mindlessly, and for a brief moment, feeling like a little girl isn’t such a terrible thing.

“You never had a child,” mother says yet a different afternoon, and her statement is a reprimand, her tone suggesting that Regina has purposefully neglected her duties as a woman.

Regina turns away from mother’s eyes, the sternness that she spies written in her brown pools the harshest of admonitions. She stands up, her movements brusque and short, containing grief that laps slowly at her insides, that makes her belly itch uncomfortably until she presses her hand there, the touch failing to be comforting when the hard material of her corset is constricting her so. With her back to mother’s figure, she breathes in slowly. Her hand, unwittingly scratching at her own abdomen, looks almost alien to her, powerful and incapable at the same time, and the sight only becomes bearable when mother coaxes her out of her thoughts, standing before her with a saddened smile, as if she understands the plights life has put Regina through, lost children opening holes in her already battered heart. She looks like the most beautiful woman in the world to Regina then, timeless and grandiose, and for a moment Regina feels hypnotized enough that she wants to beg for an embrace, for a compassionate caress to soothe all her aches.

One more afternoon and what mother says is, “Every kingdom needs an heir, dear; you did well in keeping Eva’s spawn away from your crown, but you _must_ ensure your future.”

This afternoon, with the dusky light of the waning day above them and the rustling of the wind against the leaves, mother looks almost eerie, her posture stiff and her face darkened as she stands under the shadow of a tall tree. Nonetheless, her hand finds Regina’s, and if her fingers resemble claws, and her grip shackles like the ones that plague Regina’s nightmares, then Regina blames the constricting feeling on too many years spent under the rule of the others.

Mother must spy her doubts, for she says, “Don’t look so preoccupied Regina, I want nothing but your happiness. Now come, I have a surprise.”

And Regina follows, surprise and elation brimming under her skin.

 

* * *

 

Mother’s surprise includes a dress and a man, the former fleetingly lovely, and the latter inadequate after the first perusal. Mother dresses her in light blue, in something sweet and demure, a gown like those from her childhood, and Regina loves it and hates it with equal passion, the figure it evokes that of someone she can’t be anymore, and doesn’t wish to be either. She complies with mother’s wishes, however, even ignores her quiet jab about the unfortunate scar on her lip, and allows herself to be thrown into the arms of the man mother calls her soulmate. Briefly, Regina thinks of a smiling fairy, of afternoons spent at a dingy tavern speaking of impossible dreams, of how she had so wanted to be Tink’s friend, and had ended up being her charity case instead, and finally, of a man with a lion tattoo.

If hope brims inside her at the thought of her fated soulmate, then it is only for the briefest of moments, the man mother brings for her so impossibly wrong that even allowing him to speak more than one sentence is an effort. Regina lets him babbler for a minute, though, and then scares his wits away until he confesses mother’s desire for a grandchild; and to think that Regina had fooled herself into thinking that mother cared for her for a moment, to think that she had thought her capable of soothing her heartache when all she’d wanted was for her to give her a royal child to control. Regina has the man hanged above a fiery pit, and she is _not_ throwing a tantrum.

“Honestly, if she wanted to breed me like a common mare she could have let me choose the man at least!” She yells as she steps into her bedchambers, stewing still after actually having allowed that man’s filthy paws on her, even if just for a moment.

She spares a thought for a man with blue eyes and a hood offering her a flower crown, and she is distracted enough that she even gives into the guilty pleasure of thinking of the handsome face of her scowling huntsman, but both ideas discomfit her, only adding to her fiery rage. A vase pays the price, the shattering of it against the wall satisfying beyond measure, her anger making her feel more lively that she has in the past few weeks. She realizes that mother has done what she does so well, putting her under her thumb with derision followed by affection, and Regina, who is obviously as much of an idiot as she once was, had believed in her good intentions with the desperation of an orphaned child.

She groans, unintelligibly, pacing her bedchambers from side to side, hands splayed over her own belly and pressing hard against the flesh there. A child, a child for mother to sink her claws into, to destroy and control to her will, an innocent child born with the sole purpose of suffering under mother’s unwavering harshness, and Regina feels sick. The thought consumes her, and when she finally manages to stop her dizzying walk, it’s so she can look down at her own hands, small palms and thin fingers, the skin smooth and free of manual work, strong, so strong that they can’t hope to ever hold something as delicate as a child. She huffs, annoyed, frustrated, ignoring the tears threatening at the corner of her eyes with steadfast determination – if mother’s hands are inadequate to raise a child, then surely her own aren’t any better, not when they’re covered in blood, not when Regina has dreamed of setting them upon Snow’s neck with such glee, not when every child they have known has been condemned to a terrible fate.

At such thoughts, sorrow conquers her, her mind filled with striking clarity even as her tears betray her and fall down her cheeks, leaving cold, salty trails behind. As she begins gathering ingredients for a potion, her fingers already experienced in the art of death, she tells herself that she never wanted children, anyway, not truly. She might have, once, perhaps, with Daniel, when they’d had a bright future ahead of them, when happiness had been but a blur of ideas filled with the stupidity of youth; she had never wanted them with Leopold, and if she had learnt to love her little thing before she had lost it, then it had been nothing but necessity; and whatever Maleficent’s unicorn had shown her surely had been nothing but nonsenses, glimpses of blond hair and the feel of a chubby hand searching for her nothing but the desires of a confused mind.

Nonetheless, Regina doesn’t drink the potion, at least not immediately. It’s funny, she thinks, how easy and quick it is to brew something meant to forever destroy her insides, to leave her as barren as the court had once accused her of being. And why shouldn’t it be, when death comes to her with such ease, when remorse no longer has a place in her heart? She has clung to lost hopes for so long, has wavered and doubted herself, has entertained thoughts of giving up her revenge and she has allowed her weakness to conquer her, to distract her from her path. Mother had known, had so easily discovered her soft spots, had so masterfully used them against her that she had reduced her to little more than a whimpering child in only a little longer than a fortnight. What mother could have done to her had a child ever been born doesn’t bear thinking, nor does it what a bloodthirsty kingdom might punish her with were she to become a mother.

In another lifetime, Regina might have been a mother, she may have spent her days singing happy tunes, cooking hearty meals for plump children full of smiles, sewing patches in worn out playing clothes, mindless of uncomely callouses, but in this one, that woman is but a shadow under an apple tree, dying embers of a girl that once was. Regina can’t afford to be what she was, or what she might have been, but rather has to let go of burdens and grief, and let herself be what she is – and it’s so hard to pinpoint who that might be, for is she’s not her mother’s daughter, or Leopold’s wife, or Snow’s step-mother, or Baroness Irene’s confidante, then what does she have left to be, what is there left to fill her chest and make her heart beat with unwavering strength? Surely nothing but the monster, roughly carved by unfortunate events and given breath by necessity. And if mother has taught her something at all, if her lessons have burnt some truth under her skin, then that is that monsters should never have children, so Regina pours the potion in a goblet, scents it with some sweet spices so it won’t taste like the foulest of medicines, and pretends that her hands aren’t shaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1- Robin: I'm trying to go here with what I think A&E were trying to do with the character at first, before he came down with a case of Total Lack of Personality (TM). I've always thought they were going for someone a little cocky but fun, and that they basically wrote themselves into a corner with the whole Because-Pixie-Dust relationship, so that they made him and Regina go from zero to twu wub without any actual development. It's a shame, because I honestly think Robin could have been a fun character (or at least you know, better than a doormat), and the thing is, while this is not in any way an OQ fic, I do think Robin is important for Regina's story, and I need him to have an actual personality. My take on their relationship is a _could have been great in the right place and time, but we were doomed to never find the right place and time_ kind of thing, which is what I'm going for. Any case, Robin won't be showing up again until the canon events of S3.
> 
> 2- As for the huntsman *sigh*. Ok so, canon heavily implies that Regina begins _raping_ the huntsman from their first meeting onward, but I hate this plot, simply because it isn't properly treated as a rape plot (because A &E don't know what that is even when they're writing it, apparently), and I hate that the treatment it gets is "lol he's her sex slave" (actual DVD commentary from the creators). Considering that, I've changed the dynamics of the relationship in the EF a bit (I like mine better, lol), while their Storybrooke dynamic will remain the same.  
> My reasoning is that while both situation are objectively _rape_ (I don't know the fandom opinion on this, but while I love Regina, the sexual abuse of Graham is undeniable to me), from Regina's POV they're not. Basically, the situation canon implies in the EF would require physical abuse, while the situation in SB is "taking advantage of the fact that the curse compels Graham to like her". While I would argue that the second situation is actually far more perverse, it makes sense that Regina as a character would be able to rationalize it.  
>  Did that make sense at all? I just don't want it to look like I'm trivializing the subject to make Regina more charitable, but I just don't see her physically forcing herself on someone, magic and all; plus, I just don't feel like it matches the feel of the character in the fic.


	7. Part VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW1: Implied eating disorder.
> 
> TW2: Mentions of past marital rape and past emotional abuse.
> 
> TW3: Mentions of past miscarriage. Mentions the canon events of "Mother" (4x20), where Regina takes a potion to make herself barren.
> 
> TW4: The farther this goes the more it deals with Regina's Evil Queen tendencies, so canon compliant type of violence and abuse; a little more violent than canon, actually.
> 
> TW5: Non-canon character death.
> 
> \--
> 
> AN: Sorry this has taken so long, but work's been a bitch lately. Hugs to everyone!

The night is cold yet clear, the skies coated a deep midnight blue and brightened by what must be thousands of stars, their light only dulled by the sight of the fire before Regina’s eyes, the golden hue of the flames licking away at the wooden structures of small houses, at feeble roofs made of straw, at clothes forgotten in the frenzy of escape. The sight, destructive in its nature, is enchanting to Regina’s attentive gaze. The village, nothing but a group of six houses surrounding a large cornfield, burns with beauty far more impressive than it ever held before, and Regina can’t help but find her lips settling into an amused smirk, the vision of blazing orange warming up her chest where the cold night breeze insists on freezing her instead. She has always liked fire, after all, her anger burning her despondency away, her desires igniting warmth in the otherwise empty spaces under her skin, wildfire becoming nothing but a sign of her strength and of her passing through underserving lands.

The spectacle before her is hypnotizing enough that she ignores her troops retreating, giving up on the chase of the former inhabitants of the small village only after her direct command, and the lot of them obviously not finding respite equal to hers in the fascination of the fire. Her Military Advisor stays, however, quiet and steady by her side, knowing well by now that she enjoys the sights and doesn’t wish to be interrupted, that even with peasants running away with their lives intact the destruction taking place before them is victory enough to quench her desires. The wind blows, crisp and uncomfortable, tangling Regina’s long tresses even further than they already are, but not managing to quell the healthy glow of her cheeks, heated up by the proximity of the fire. It will be hours before the houses burn down to the ground, and while Regina won’t stay to watch the flames extinguish, she plans to linger for a long while yet, the quivering flickers of tangible brightness providing calm far beyond what resting her weary body might.

Time passes mindlessly, slowly, and Regina breathes in with every second that goes by, the smell of burnt wood giving way to that of smoke and the flames dwindling until they don’t seem enough to conquer the chilliness of the long winter night anymore. Regina feels like pouting, almost, and she only holds back the gesture because her Military Advisor finally breaks his stance and presses a globed hand to her forearm, bringing her attention away from the blazing annihilation.

“Should we go back to the camp now, Your Majesty?” He wonders, always happy to suggest rather than order, knowing by now that she always answers with more levelheadedness when she doesn’t feel herself led unwillingly down any path.

Regina softens her smirk, sparing a second to be grateful for the earned friendship of this man that has become so indispensable to both her cause and her sanity. After all, even while undeclared and fought under the pretenses of unorganized rebellion, Regina is in the middle of a ruthless war, and Duke Nicholas, while a respectful advisor who openly admires Regina’s strategic smarts, is also confident enough in their rapport to speak up and tell her when she’s acting insanely. Regina doesn’t always listen, but she’s certainly always more willing to stop and pay attention when the Military Advisor is whispering his thoughts, than when anyone else is bellowing them instead.

“Not quite yet, but you should make your way back; it is getting rather late, and we have a long march tomorrow.”

The duke nods, acquiescing to her silent command with no protest, and with enough perception to take her ever faithful Claude with him, leaving her alone despite her guard’s warnings. She rather enjoys spending her time within her troops’ camp, finding herself delighted and mindlessly entertained by the boisterous nature of her men resting after a long battle or a fearsome attack, but tonight she would rather remain by herself, finding her own peace in the smoke rising towards the dark sky. She can hear music in the distance, though, some of her soldiers having demonstrated hidden talents when presented with a lute or a rackett, the impossibly brutish Ralf even surprising everyone with a skillful dexterity of the viol, and the faraway sound is enough to calm her senses and to relax her tense shoulders, tired after nearly a month away from the palace and burdened by the cumbersome coat of mail her council had insisted on when she’d demanded to be at the head of every battle.

King Charles’ incursion into Regina’s lands, while certainly not the first attempt of such sort, has proven to be the most irritating one thus far, his forces too weak to be truly problematic, but resistant enough to cause unwanted losses and to require far too much of Regina’s attentions. Regina knows for certain that the man remains affronted over her careless dismissal of his marriage proposal, and that his recent wedding to one of the richest countesses of George’s kingdom is the reason behind his feeble bid at wreaking havoc within Regina’s borders, never mind the futility of such an endeavor. The whole ordeal has infuriated her enough that she has left a battalion behind her after their victory, thoughts of conquering Charles’ kingdom for herself already half formed in her overworked mind. Her Military Advisor doesn’t think such an incursion necessary or advantageous, the small patch of lands too small to be of any notice, its maritime connections incomparable to Regina’s own. Nonetheless, the kingdom is pretty and its ruler has managed to affront Regina quite personally, making her want to stomp her foot in the man’s face with petty determination. They can always do with a bigger fleet, after all, and Regina hardly thinks the new queen will be opposed to becoming her warden once Charles’ head rests on a pike.   

It is perhaps a too harsh punishment, Regina muses, considering that the responsible hand behind Charles’ attack, as well as others that have occurred during the past year, is George’s, his kingdom growing weaker since Regina cut all commercial relationships with him, a deal with Rumpelstiltskin prodding her into action, but only pushing her in a direction that had already been in her thoughts at the time. She has always respected King George, has even appreciated his blunt and honest demeanor, his lack of hypocritical flourishes and the regard he has shown her, but his constant onslaught of marriage proposals, along with how quick he’d been to slander her name after her firm rejection, had been more than enough to turn her thoughts of his persona into a bitterly sour course. Regina’s breaking off of their commercial contract had been enough to send him in an impossible quest to conquer her lands, using military force when he’d intended to have her hand in marriage before, and had certainly found himself surprised by Regina’s own military power; after all, back in the days of Leopold, George’s army had been the mightiest of the realm. It lays within George’s own stupidity, then, to think her as foolish as her husband had once been, and to somehow assume her careless enough not to have spent the last few years building herself an army robust enough to do away with his in a few well-fought battles.

Regina is sure that there will be a time to recover her relationship with George, but as of today, she finds herself fighting away attempts from other kingdoms, their rulers apparently dumb enough to choose George’s guiding hand over her own. There has been nothing but victories for her thus far, though, a thought that would be far more pleasant if such triumphs didn’t imply months on the road and a thin layer of dust permanently settled over her skin. She could very easily magically bring herself back to the palace during the nights, but such a thing feels rather impractical and like a fantastical waste of energies, particularly when her men are validated in their efforts whenever they catch sight of her jubilant smirk. It’s true, too, that Regina finds tremendous satisfaction in the battlefield, in her limbs growing tired from too fast riding and the bellow of excited commands, strategic discussions far more thrilling than gossip had ever been to her, and her magic crackling with ease and proving the most fearsome of weapons. Mother would have been appalled, she thinks, would have chosen to lead her armies from her clean and pristine throne and far away from dusty fields, would have made herself high and mighty where Regina chooses to ride as one of her own men. Regina finds, though, that after mother’s last thunderous wreckage over her life, she’s not particularly inclined to follow her teachings, far more confident in her own mind, proven right by boundless conquests.

An unwitting sigh conquers her frame at her mangled thoughts, and she gives up entirely on them, forgetting mother and rebellious kings in favor of walking a little further into the woods, where she knows a light stream crosses the otherwise dry lands – surely the reason for the villagers to settle themselves in this particular spot. They have been riding through narrow and steep patches of mountain for days now, and Regina longs for the cool touch of clean water. It takes no more than a few minutes to find the small river, the rushing sound of the current more pleasant to her than the distant melodies of the camp, and even than the crepitating sound of the flames she’d found so captivating only moments ago. She sighs yet again, suddenly impossibly tired, and does a quick job of getting rid of the heaviest pieces of her armor as well as her boots, the blistering skin of her feet stinging pleasantly when she dips them in the cold water. As she sits by the rough edges, a lone patch of dirty grass providing the ghost of comfort under her, she realizes that she’s still holding a piece of paper between nimble fingers, Snow White’s face imprinted above the words _Murder, Treason and Treachery_ mocking her in the shape of runny ink. The edges of the paper are singed, and its color has darkened into a yellowish beige, making the picture of Snow grotesque and inadequate, her pretty face distorted and ugly in ways that the girl has never been. Regina curls her fingers around the poster, briefly considering consuming it with the same fire that Snow’s supporters had been victim to, but instead finds herself dunking it in the cold water, feeling the material turn to mush until it’s completely gone and the image of Snow along with it.

This last stop of their journey had been a last moment decision, the news that Snow had been seen prowling through these parts of the kingdom and Regina’s proximity to them in their way back to the palace excuse enough for her to visit the village herself, and to make the punishment for her disappointed expectations to be executed in the shape of cleansing fire. She knows better than to hope that accounts of Snow’s whereabouts hold any truth by now, but at least she finds odd satisfaction in delivering retribution for the lies told – she won’t be trifled with, and if she’s to endure hearsay and mockery, then surely its perpetrators should be prepared to endure her wrath in exchange.

It’s been a little over a year now since Regina last caught sight of Snow, since those fateful days they had spent together in the woods, Regina under disguise and Snow so fooled by such trickery that she had confessed truths she may have never spoken to Regina otherwise. Regina had thought her daft and unwise, opening herself up in such ways to a complete stranger, had thought that surely she hadn’t learnt that kind of easy trust from her, not when Regina had always kept her innermost thoughts close to her heart and hidden behind lies told so convincingly and walls built so high that no one would dare try and climb. Trust had never brewed anything but pain for Regina, after all, and she had shied away from Snow’s compulsory exposure with as much ferocity as she’d craved it, her words of family lost and wistful desires to recover ties now long gone denting away at Regina’s cold demeanor with steadfast vigor. Now, thinking about it, she twists her lips into a sneer, disgusted at how easily she had brightened at the prospect of recovering the lost shreds of her relationship with Snow, at how despite having promised herself not to hold hope beyond herself and her own abilities, for a brief and impossibly luminous moment she had believed in the prospect of changing her fate, in the idea that there was something salvageable amongst the waves of hatred she had bestowed upon Snow White.

She blames mother, now; blames her for having crippled her once more, for leaving her open and vulnerable so that when Snow had spoken of the girl that had saved her from sure death atop a maddened horse with love so genuine written in her features, Regina had thought the frail tendrils of their twisted tenderness restored. She had thought, momentarily, that perhaps Snow would look at her, truths exposed and dark edges uncovered, would stare at the scarred shape of her heart, at the emptiness of her soul conquered by pulsing anger, and would somehow love her still. She had thought that perhaps Snow could look past the deceit and the masks, past the feigned sweetness and the instilled demureness and see her as she was, damaged but not broken, waiting for a hand to hold towards a better path. She had dreamed of telling her everything, of speaking of Daniel’s true destiny, of mother’s twistedness and impositions, of decades of duplicity that had so distorted her, of pain so acute that Regina’s only hope for survival had been furious assault against everything and everyone, including herself. Instead, she had felt the weight of Snow’s disappointment settling over her shoulders, eyes that had been so bright one moment dulling the next in the face of Regina’s sins. Snow had looked at a village of slaughtered bodies and had declared Regina lacking beyond reason, heartless and unforgivable; and Regina, numb and indifferent before the tragedy that had seen her as judge and executioner but its victims as nothing but guilty in her eyes, had known Snow forever lost to her, and death the only possible outcome for the wretchedness of the inadequate love they had bestowed upon each other. After all, Snow had loved nothing but her lies, and Regina hadn’t known tenderness for her that had been untouched by hatred.

Regina wishes to banish her thoughts of Snow away, longs to expel her from her mind in a night such as this, when fire has been set with the sole purpose of chasing her ghost away. The cool night air around her and the sharp chill of the water surrounding her feet should be enough to distract her, but she knows that she’s condemned to being haunted by her memories of the princess. There’s a shadow of detachment to her thoughts now, however, a precise and calculated rationality where before there had been nothing but all-consuming mania. She supposes spending those days with her hadn’t been completely fruitless, ultimately affording her the privilege of gazing upon her former step-daughter without the legend the populace had built around her. Sitting side by side, they had been nothing but two women at odds, much like they had once been two girls pushed together by forces beyond their comprehension – Regina holds onto that thought feverishly sometimes, when the shadows of their given titles threaten to bury her within the depths of insanity. A hero and an Evil Queen, and Regina artlessly seizes the knowledge that they’re but Snow White and Regina, quarreling sisters turning the kingdom into their battleground.

“Isn’t it a lovely sight?” Snow had said during their time together, daylight barely breaking above them and nothing but thick forests hiding Snow’s makeshift tent. “I couldn’t possibly wish to be anywhere else.”

Regina had laughed, and Snow had looked at her with a wrinkle in her nose and a frown settled between her eyes, the little girl that hated to be contradicted and that Regina had known so well painted over her features. It had been strange, a juxtaposition to the Snow Regina had discovered anew, her face sharpened and her fingers calloused, her senses acute and her demeanor suspicious of every noise around them, her hands as deft at making healing poultices as they had been at shooting fast and precise arrows.

The thought of that time merely manages to paint a bitter smirk on Regina’s lips these days, the irony of the money she had spent on Snow’s archery lessons and the time consumed teaching her about herbs and plants not lost on her; that she had given her enemy the weapons now used for survival seemed but nothing like an impossibly cruel joke of the destiny that had hanged above their heads since the moment their paths had crossed.

Regina hugs herself as the memories come to the forefront of her mind, vivid despite their encounter being over a year old, painstakingly poignant every time she hears the title she’s earned along with a brimming rebellion and constant opposition from a kingdom that has made Snow its champion. _The Evil Queen,_ they call her, and Regina, who has worn so many faces, donned so many costumes over the years, has taken on the offered moniker and has made it honorific, wearing it like protective armor, like a warm cape over her shoulders, like implicit expectations of a collective mind that needs a villain to push against their heightened hero. And why not, why not take what has been offered and use it to her advantage? After all, evil has no weakness, evil wears its strangeness as shield, evil is greater than she can ever hope to be by herself, curling its shadow in tendrils so interminable that her legend precedes her, makes her stronger with nothing but whispers and stories told. More to the point, evil makes no apologies, and so Regina has left her wavering doubts behind, has forgotten hands that were as quick to punish as they were to mollify, has crushed whatever ludicrous ideas of acceptance and respect she may have once harbored; if she is to be deemed a demon, then it is only par for the course that she leaves no place for mercy, no place for vacillating greyness in a world that has painted her black.

She leaves her thoughts behind to turn her attention towards more mundane tasks, namely, her blistering feet, now cooled down but unmistakably swollen. Forlornly, she stares at her discarded boots, ruing her decision of taking them off so far away from her sleeping tent and glaring as if the leather contraptions have personally offended her. Truth be told, her attire is as comfortable as it can be, but after weeks of walking and riding her skin is as damaged as that of a knight, even her hands growing callouses despite magic being her weapon. Suddenly, she yearns for velvet and lace, for fine dresses and heavy jewelry, and most of all, for a decent warm bath and scented oils to properly wash her hair, instead of the cleansing magic she has been using to keep herself mildly presentable. She supposes she could jump inside the cold stream, but the palace is merely a day’s ride away, and she would rather fix herself in the comfort of luxury. She closes her eyes, thinking of a plush bed and a warm dinner, of father’s arm under her own as they take a walk under her apple tree, its scent present even in the chilliest days of winter.

Rather than loose herself in the fantasy, she conjures up her travelling equipment, hoping that there’s enough balm left to heal her damaged skin. Her feet carefully oiled and bandaged, Regina is in the middle of tying up her boots carefully when she feels a burst of magic, the sickly sweet smell of it revealing its owner before the purple smoke has given way to the twirling figure of Rumpelstiltskin. A giggle fills the air, overpowering distant music and the rustling of water, and Regina rolls her eyes.

“I am _not_ in the mood for you tonight, Rumpel,” she hisses immediately. Not that she ever _is_ in the mood for the imp’s flourishing theatrics, but the least he can do for her is appear when she’s well-rested and alert, rather than dragging around the weariness of a month of battles.

He laughs, motioning in her general direction with a pointed finger. “It’s funny how you think you get a say in my agenda.” At finding himself at the end of a dark glare, he smiles impudently. “No, really, you do amuse me, dearie.”

Rolling her eyes one more time, and positive that there’s no better answer to give to the imp when at his most annoying, she tiredly questions, “What do you want?”

“Merely to humbly deliver a message; meeting my end of a deal, of course.”

Regina frowns, Rumpelstiltskin’s words always managing to be half a riddle filled with hidden truths, but she has little time to question the meaning of his statement before he’s throwing something at her rather carelessly. She stops whatever the object may be with a slight wave of her fingers, leaving it floating before her, and scowls even as she reaches out for what she realizes is a small wooden box, no larger than her palm. She finds that she dislikes performing magic whenever Rumpelstiltskin is around these days, somehow feeling it heavier and stickier when in his presence, as if her own power were aligning with his own, harmonizing with the darkness within the imp and distorting her own abilities until they’re but a twisted version of her own reality. He never fails to smirk at her, obvious knowledge of her dilemma comical to his ever cruel sense of amusement.

Lowering her gaze to the box between her hands, she opens it only to find a pendant and a short note, the well-known calligraphy of mother’s hand spelling her name at the top of the paper enough to make her growl.

“She gave this to you?” She receives a raised eyebrow for an answer, and stopping herself from scoffing, she demands instead, “In exchange for _what?_ ”

“Well, dearie, there are many favors to be gained from the Queen of Hearts,” he intones, his right hand flying up in a twirl more exaggerated than his usual, granting the title with as much burgeoning pomp as Rumpelstiltskin is capable of.

“The Queen of Hea–ah, of course she would be queen,” Regina mutters, a bitter laugh hidden in vile-tasting words.

Regina had certainly done her bit of studying after she had pushed mother through the looking glass all those years ago, if in fear of her return or regret at her own actions she had never questioned for entirely too long, wary of the answer. Everything she’d read of the realm so often referred to as Wonderland had been nothing but nonsense, and perhaps she had been foolish when she’d dismissed the ever growing rumors she’d received from magical acquaintances about the harsh rule of the Queen of Hearts, choosing to ignore whatever news came her way of the land that she had exiled mother to. That mother would claw her way to a crown doesn’t surprise Regina, but that she would dare send her anything after Regina had so adamantly demanded to be rid of her presence only manages to make her pulse quicken with foul and sudden fury.

 Behind her, Rumpelstiltskin is busy making some crack about mother’s craftiness, but Regina ignores him in favor of pulling the pendant out of the box and bringing it up to eye level for examination. A heart-shaped stone hangs from a heavy golden chain, expensive and ostentatious, the bright red color of the gem shining even under the dim light of the starry night, mocking her with its blood-like gleam. Never quite one for subtlety, mother’s gift is nothing but a deep offense to Regina’s own heart, wounded by the one mother had crushed between purposeful fingers, by the ones that will never beat now that Regina has stolen children away from her own future. It’s a beautiful piece of jewelry, nonetheless, fit for a queen of course, and Regina figures it may work quite well with the deep red dress she’d commissioned right before leaving for Charles’ kingdom. She rests it in her hand, feels the weight of it gingerly, and realizes that the mere thought of wearing such a thing around her neck is enough to make her choke, mother’s over-reaching hands wrapping around her throat even from as far away as a completely different realm. She twists her lips disagreeably then, and with a jerky movement of her arm throws the pendant into the river, the loud splash of it as it sinks and floats away with the power of the stream immensely satisfying. The box quickly follows the same destiny, whatever mother’s note may have said something Regina has no interest in finding out, lest it convince her to give mother one more chance to chip away at her heart.

“Didn’t like the gift, then? I _did_ tell her red and gold are a little gauche, but you know your mother can be terribly stubborn.”

Regina bites her lower lip to stop the bark of laughter that feels so natural after Rumpelstiltskin’s statement, the insolent and natural rapport they have developed when it comes to mother something that Regina doesn’t find agreeable in the least. That they have both been privy to mother’s best and worst tendencies is obvious, that Regina would somehow wish to find an unspoken camaraderie with the imp regarding the subject not so much – it feels a little bit too much like choosing daddy over mommy, and every single layer of the thought is absolutely and despairingly wrong.

Regina has always known that there’s a connection between mother and Rumpelstiltskin, some old story that they have both refused to share but that very obviously makes them past lovers, and perhaps something with far more depth than mindless physical knowledge. Mother had spoken of Rumpelstiltskin with fondness of all things, and while a part of Regina wishes to know nothing of their attachment, a bigger, more frantic part has always dripped with the drollest of curiosities over the subject. Rumpelstiltskin had called mother _magnificent_ once, and Regina can’t help but wonder just which kind of actions would lead the slippery and overly confident Dark One to bestow such a compliment upon anyone; the best she has ever gotten from her former teacher is _unexpected,_ and she’s not particularly sure whether it was meant as honest flattery or as a bitter statement of fact at the time.

Rumpelstiltskin had always dodged her questions regarding mother with masterful ease, but a year ago, when Regina had called for him in the mindlessness of her fever, he’d spoken of her in words more revealing than Regina had ever heard before. Then again, the fortnight after mother had left her had seen her so terribly sick that perhaps Regina had imagined the whole ordeal, her delirium bringing false images of soothing demons, of invented whispered confessions. The potion she’d taken had brought her near the brink of death, the painful stab of discomfort low on her belly she’d felt when she’d first drank it building fast and vigorous and cramping her up with ruthless agony, breaking apart her insides like the cruelest of monster-like claws may have done. She’d bled for days, her blood dark and pungent, much like it had been when she’d lost her child all those years ago, her body crying in the same manner for the children she would never have, and her shivering aches soon giving way to high temperatures and a loose mind, one persecuted by pervasive and confusing nightmares that blurred themselves with reality and the darkness of a piece of her heart broken by her own hand.

The memories of those days were fuzzy at best and tormented at their worst, but Regina remembers with despairingly bright clarity the sight of father’s eyes, saddened beyond repair while holding her unsteady gaze, and the feel of his smooth hands, careful in their touches as they did what little they could to soothe, even if just cleaning the sweat away from her feverish and clammy skin. And despite father being there, her beacon of light and the only person she should have wanted to cling to, her febrile lips had parted in a croaky cry of Rumpelstiltskin’s name. She’d begged then, her spirit crushed and her wits gone, the touch of reality but a sigh tingling at the corner of her mind. She’d asked him to reverse it, to turn back time and force the potion away from her hand, to undo the destruction that she’d brought upon herself with her own hands, but with the fearsome whisper of mother’s ghost as her guide.

“I told you there was nothing to be had _in there,_ dearie,” he’d said, motioning vaguely towards her abdomen, his wiggling fingers creating waves of golden light before her hazy eyes. “No use crying over spilled milk.”

She’d lunged at him then, unwitting but fierce, a snarling beast jumping towards her most grievous of predators, the master and owner of her soul that now refused her the most necessary of favors. Strengths weakened and wobbliness conquering her every move, she’d done little else than scratch at empty air, falling to the floor before the imp in a heap of heavy limbs and ugly sobs, a queen beaten to the ground by her own hand and denied cruelly by her fiendish devil. And in her pathetic fragility, he’d been as unexpected as he’d accused her of being on numerous occasions, a scaly finger finding its way to her fevered brow, his clumsy attempt at comfort bizarre enough that Regina had jumped away as if burnt, shying away from his kindness with the same stubbornness she’d used to meet his harshness in the past.

He’d curled his hand against his chest, confounded by the rejection, and with a twist of his mouth he’d declared, “Ah, the joys of picking up after Cora’s messes; she did always say you were a harebrained, stupid girl.”

He’d been nasty, cold and downright insulting since then, his momentary gentleness gone in the blink of an eye so that Regina still suspects it but a construct of her own nebulous senses. He’d popped up uninvited for the next few days, though, and in his visits, he’d recounted hidden memories of mother with zealous vagueness, as if he wished to confess truths that he couldn’t truly bear to uncover, as if somehow Regina’s blurred mind was the closest to a silent preacher that he could hope to obtain.

Regina isn’t stupid enough to think that the imp’s interest in her well-being had been anything other than assurance over the life of an investment of too many years to give up on, but those days remain as an otherworldly parenthesis in her memory, like an episode of someone else’s life, or a break in the usual relationship she’s developed with her former master. Whatever the case may be, the simple thought of those unfortunate events brings an unpleasant flush to her cheeks now, and she finds herself despising the warmth that she had so craved only moments ago, when her sight had been delighted by the fiery embers of a burning village. Feeling foolish for giving so into her unpleasant memories, she suppresses a huff and reaches forward, plunging her hands into the cold water of the stream and bringing them up to her own cheeks, doing her best at cooling down her overheated skin.

“What did you ever do to her, anyway?” She crisply asks, interrupting whatever speech Rumpelstiltskin had been in the middle of in favor of distracting herself from her thoughts. When no answer is forthcoming, she insists, annoyance sipping into each of her words when she says, “I mean mother; what did you ever do to her?”

After all, it had always seemed unlikely that mother would allow the proverbial human host of all-powerful darkness to escape from her grasp.

Silence reigning still, Regina looks up from her prone position to catch Rumpelstiltskin’s eyes with her most frustrated glare; she has gotten fairly used to her commands and inquiries being answered with, if not complete truth, then at least agile momentum, and she doesn’t enjoy being kept waiting for long. It’s easy enough to forget sometimes that Rumpelstiltskin isn’t one of her subjects, and that he won’t cower at the first sight of her glowering eyes; at best, he usually laughs at her single-minded determination to be served with swift efficiency. There isn’t mockery tonight, tough, no brisk jab coming from the imp’s viciously sharp tongue, and so Regina’s glare turns into a questioning gaze that reveals the most unusual of truths. She knows fairly well that possessing complete understanding of Rumpelstiltskin’s actions and demeanor is but an unobtainable dream, but she’s certain that what she’s spying in the swirling darkness of his eyes is brutal and unwavering _hurt,_ the sting of the emotion brief, yet deep enough for Regina to glimpse human-like frailty in the otherwise heartless creature before her.

“Oh,” she intones, eyes widening in realization and lips stretching into the most delighted of grins. “What did _she_ ever do to _you_?”

She laughs even as she’s asking her question, the amused elation of knowing mother the one woman to overpower the Dark One enough for the sound to be the brightest and most honest it has been in months. No wonder he thinks her magnificent, then, if he has truly suffered by her hand. He doesn’t deign her question with an honest answer, and while Regina wasn’t expecting one, she certainly wasn’t expecting him to simply flee the scene either. It is what he does, though, no dark threat or funny little quip to confront her glee, and nothing but a sheen of purple smoke left behind as proof of his presence.

“Well, it’s no fun if you don’t play,” she murmurs at the empty air before her, jutting her lip forward in a silly little pout, her queenly poise forgotten in favor of playing the disgruntled little girl.

Laughter shakes her one more time, though, unstoppable and free, her frame moving with it and replenishing her energies enough that when she stands up and rests her weight on her swollen and blistering feet she barely feels the pain. As if coming out from a drowsy spell, sound and scent comes back to her, her ears being inundated once again with the twinkling rustle of the flooding stream and the faraway thump of enthusiastic music, and her nose once more catching the scent of burning wood and smoke. Any other day she may find nothing but bitter distaste in Rumpelstiltskin’s visit and the memory of mother, but tonight, with one more victory against Snow White and her allies under her unyielding hand, and with the knowledge that the powerful Dark One has weak spots to be exploited, she smirks, the prospect of a night with her troops and a celebration in her name suddenly impossibly captivating.

Her smirk doesn’t soften into a smile as she walks back towards the camp, but rather widens into a victorious grin, the dying embers of the fire a tangible demonstration of her sovereignty, the resilient spirit of her vengeance climbing high into the nightly air, smoke rising and rising, unstoppable and implacable, and along with it, the legend of the Evil Queen.

 

* * *

 

The palace receives her with peaceful silence but cold rooms, the frosty character of the harsh winter days slipping through the cracks and defying the most vivid of fires. It must be one of the coldest winters the kingdom has ever seen, its days far too short and dark, and the strong winds billowing as if filled with moaning spirits, much like old stories claim them to be. Regina chases the freeze away with candles in every room and hearty, warm meals for everyone, but even then, she doesn’t rue the intimate mood of the season, particularly when the first few days back allow her the respite of personal time. Much as she’d enjoyed the mind-numbing excitement of battlefields and the shared camaraderie of camps, she now realizes she’s been craving the solace of private chambers, much more so once she remembers the simple pleasure of fresh linens, a comfortable bed, and a warm bath.

The first couple of days she does very little, postponing council meetings and the business of the kingdom in favor of taking stock of herself, and of finally paying attention to bruises and wounds that she has swiftly ignored during her time on the road. The fights haven’t been particularly grueling for her, her knights taking the brunt of the front lines and the most physical combats, but too long hours of horse riding and sleeping on thin cots over the hard ground and for too few hours have certainly been enough to breed aches all over her body. She studies them carefully, resting soft fingers on the purplish marks inside her thighs, rubbing softening balms and healing potions on blistered feet and roughened hands, hissing uncomfortably when clumsily healing with her magic an unfortunate bruise right below her ribs, the flesh abused and tender. She bandages, balms and heals accordingly, the warm water of long baths and the scented oils massaged over her skin demanding that she rests tired limbs and a weary mind. She sleeps then, long and dreamless, lazily cat-like as she lingers under the sheets, the grey skies outside failing to tempt her away from her bed. She realizes, with languid accuracy, that there’s something almost satisfying in the tiredness and the pain gained in the midst of war, honor in the blood spilled in the fight, her bruises trophies hard-earned. The marks and wounds left behind by Leopold’s hands had been humiliating and diminishing, but the yellows and purples given to her by the chase of her own victories make her feel like a fierce warrior, impervious to grief.

She eats a lot, too, and she eats well, accepting father’s offer of creamy vegetable soups and spicy _carne mechada_ with gusto, even being careless enough to let her head swim away after drinking too much strawberry wine. Regina remains in bed, dressed in her nightgown and covered by the softest of comforters, father sitting by her side as if she were convalescent and him nothing but the humblest of caretakers. Were father anyone else, she would have thought the whole ordeal undignified, but with his soft gaze upon her, she can do nothing but feel like the little girl that she will forever remain in his eyes, twelve years old and scared of mother discovering their nightly visits and their secret closeness. As it is, she feels nothing but warm, her love for father seemingly growing whenever they have spent a long time apart. He doesn’t like hearing of her battles, that much she knows, and while bitter resentment usually brews within her when he dares judge her actions, after a long absence she finds that his gaze holds only love, and so she allows him to speak instead, finding relief in his deep and smooth tone even if his stories of the comings and goings of the palace don’t matter much to her.

Her good mood follows her for a few days, and once she finds it in herself to leave her new-acquired lethargy behind, she summons the huntsman for dinner, and dresses herself accordingly, wrapping herself up in deep red velvet and black lace, her softest corset tightening her stomach and bringing her breasts up, giving them presence even when covered by soft fabric. Sitting by her vanity and busy with painting her eyes with kohl, she finds herself laughing, the absurd thought that she’s dressing up for her prisoner throwing her for a loop. She knows better than to think that she does this for anyone but herself, but she can admit that she’s vain enough to appreciate having an audience. Truth be told, as wonderful as lazing about in nothing but a light nightdress and thick robe has been, she craves the luxuriousness of expensive gowns and formfitting fabrics just as well.            

She’s still busy with her paints and perfumes when her guards make their way into her chambers, a grumbling huntsman in tow. Her expression remains a little lost in thought even as her hands move deftly over the dark red paint she has chosen to apply to her lips, and she only focuses her attention on her guest once she hears him drop his weight heavily against the back of his chair, arms crossed over his chest and expression displeased.

“Well, dear, don’t tell me you aren’t happy to see your queen,” she intones, mock-offense laced in her words as she stands up and walks the short distance towards the table. He says nothing, refusing even to look at her, and she adds the smallest pout to her put-upon fallacy, wondering, “Did you not miss me even a little bit?”

Most days, the huntsman offers her the diversion of sarcasm, but tonight he gives nothing, remaining stony-faced and apathetic even after Regina’s amused gaze turns into a glare. She wonders if he knows how much his bloodless despondency annoys her, and if he chooses such mien on purpose for that simple reason; she knows for certain she would be prone to such tactics were she in his position, but it seems to her that subtle prickling of the corresponding sort requires far more malice than the huntsman is capable of. She sits down with a huff, ignoring her guest in favor of her table, filled up to the brim with warm and rich-smelling dishes. She knows he will have nothing but steamed vegetables, and the thought bothers her beyond reason. Perhaps she should send him back to his dungeons tonight, but she always ends up choosing to keep him, for as much as he frustrates her sometimes, his own torturous thwarting is a good enough prize that it diminishes her annoyance.

Dinner with the huntsman has become a tradition of almost ritualistic nature by now, torture for them both that Regina doesn’t wish to free herself from. She did give up her insistence of two nights a week in favor of having his presence at the service of her whims instead, desperate to drive Leopold away from her thoughts and actions, refusing to use her memories of him as example and excuse. She’s not particularly sure what it is that she wants from the huntsman anymore, other than perhaps causing transparent and straightforward affliction to her first outspoken betrayer, to the first person to wave Snow White’s flag rather than her own. It is true that she uses him as conduit for the sins of the kingdom, treating him with more harshness in the days when the defiance and rebellion building outside of the palace walls seems to gain advantage over her own conquering hands, or in those instances when Snow’s capture and death seem imminent and end up in failure instead.  She knows herself well enough to understand that her fascination with him runs deeper, however, and that it is far more personal. She fails to grasp at the exact reasons for such interest, but the fact that prodding at him until he flinches makes her smile with joy is good enough argument for her to keep up their meetings.

Tonight they barely speak, though, and Regina finds her appetite lost but for a sudden fancy for dessert. Lifting the silver plate coverlet, she discovers rice and milk pudding, and she smiles unabashedly as the sweet scent of vanilla wafts up to her nose. Daddy must surely be behind such a choice, and the memory of the first time she’d tried it pulls at the corners of her mind, five years old and barely taller than father’s waist, being offered a spoonful of _arroz con leche._ A few biscuits accompany the dish, and Regina dunks one in with gusto, bringing it up to her mouth covered in the dense treat and biting at it unceremoniously, her thumb rescuing the crumbs that stick to the corner of her mouth. She considers them for a second, and after shrugging carelessly, she licks her finger clean, leaving a trace of red lipstick on the skin. Mother would have been most certainly appalled at her behavior, and Regina knows for certain she wouldn’t have dared partake in it where she at her table. The huntsman doesn’t fare much better, though, staring at her with surprise, as if her lack of manners and enjoyment of sweets are completely foreign, and a sure sign of madness.

She smiles, the ghost of laughter teasing at the corners of her mouth as she picks up a small bowl and fills it up with the treat, offering it then to the huntsman. “Try it,” she commands, eyeing the piece of beetroot still on his fork with mild distaste.

He doesn’t fight her command, but rather takes the offered dessert. Then again, he usually does, and not for the first time, Regina wonders about his upbringing, about the kind of meals he may have been allowed to taste in his life before becoming her prisoner. She chases the questions away quick enough, though, denying him the privilege of identity previous to their entanglement, choosing to ignore that he's anything but a traitor who stole revenge away from her hands. It’s the very reason she has given herself for not asking his name, and for simply referring to him as the huntsman, forever the perpetrator of the ultimate betrayal in her head, undeserving of individual character and sense of self. She had been barely better than an object herself once, after all, and knows the despairing misery of such loss of selfhood – for Leopold had never once used her given name, _my queen, child_ dripping from his bumbling lips and transforming her until _Regina_ had been lost between his unwanted hands.

“It’s good,” the huntsman says, and Regina leaves her daydream and is welcomed by the sight of his tongue licking at the spoon in ways that bring to light a lack of noble manners. His eyes are downcast, and so he misses Regina wrinkling her nose in his general direction, clearly floating in a daydream of his own when he says, “My mother used to–”

“Dear, please, _I don’t care._ ”

He bristles at her interruption, eyes moving up towards hers with fury etched in them. _Good,_ she thinks, savoring his anger with almost as much delight as she relishes her own. He’s not a person, she reminds herself, he has no name and no past, he’s nothing but a heart beating away inside her vault, and so he won’t be allowed reminiscence of a life lived before her.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” he intones, levelheaded even when he’s furious, nothing but a tightening of his grip on his spoon to show for such an emotion.

Not for the first time, Regina wonders at whatever it is that plagues his chest now that it’s heartless. She thinks his insistence on recalling his past out loud, something that Regina has never allowed but that he seems adamant on accomplishing, may actually be a plea for mercy, permission to hold onto a time where emotions were possible to him, rather than an echo inside his cavernous chest. He must have been a sensitive man, she ponders – _the kind to cry after a good lay as well as at the sight of the sunrise_ , as Maleficent had so succinctly put it not long ago, lips twisted into a sneer and Regina laughing with glee. She’d thought him unfeeling once and it had been a thorough mistake, for if reverberations of feelings lost are enough to keep him grieving and furious as he is now, then surely his heart must have beaten with true and unbidden sensuality before.

“Your simple job is to entertain me,” she tells him after a moment, dislodging her eyes from his, dismissing his fury by going back to her own dessert with careless abandon. “I must say you’re failing spectacularly.”

“Should I learn to juggle, Your Majesty?” he questions, lacing her title with such contempt that it almost makes her proud. She does love it when he leaves his brooding behind.

“It would help pass the time down in the dungeons, surely?”

“Dress me up in bright colors and I'll be a jester, then.”

She laughs at that, thoroughly amused and raising an eyebrow when she looks back at him. “Oh, dear, we both know how well you do with costumes, don’t we?”

His lips tighten at her words, and she knows for certain that he’s fighting a smile, the memory of the one time Regina had tried to dress him up as something other than what he is too delightfully amusing to resist. Armed with determined desires to make him presentable for her, she’d had fine clothes made for him not too long ago, close-fitting summer breeches of the lightest fabric, a tight waistcoat of rich scarlet color over a fine shirt with puffed-up sleeves, her splurge even going as far as commanding a matching cap adorned with feathers and gold chains in the latest fashion. She’d ordered him shaved as well, and the picture he’d made in such a fashion remains the funniest thing Regina has seen in her life. Never has she met someone so unsuited for fine clothing, and the huntsman’s displeased demeanor at being peacocked so had only managed to amuse her even more. He’d looked so miserable, the poor little thing, baby-faced beyond belief without his usual scruffy beard, like a boy just starched and ironed and too afraid to move or laugh for fear he’d crack, that Regina had taken pity on him and had never again forced him into such an attire. And he dares call her cruel.

These days she dresses him in nothing but breeches and shirt, comfortable if still made from the finest of fabrics and by the most skillful of hands, his beard the only concession to a hint of wildness, even if kept clean. He makes for an attractive picture now that he’s taken care of, bathing and fine food luxuries that no other prisoner is given, and if Regina enjoys the sight of him, then it is only more so because he hates being treated like a glorified doll for her pleasure. Tonight he looks particularly appealing, perhaps because Regina hasn’t seen him in so long and whatever romantic bone lingers still within her insists on his figure being that of a fanciful yet tragic hero, rather than nothing but a simple man made into a puppet by her own hands. Had he begged and cried, he certainly would have lost his appeal, but that he remains troublesome rather than pathetic only makes him more alluring to her.

They share no more words, and instead silence settles between them as they both eat slowly, nothing but the sound of the fire crepitating in the chimney and the clinking of their spoons against fine porcelain filling the room. It’s oddly comfortable in ways their relationship shouldn’t be, so when Regina spots biscuit crumbs lingering at the corner of his lips, she launches forward and towards them, her fingers seeking his flinching fear, or perhaps even his grimacing repulsion. She graces his mouth with her thumb, her fingers resting on his cheek almost absent-mindedly, and rather than wince at the unwitting caress, he merely searches for her eyes, his own wide and clear with surprise. Her touch is soft, she realizes, much too soft to be bestowed upon him, and her body is leaning forward and into his, as if expecting a passionate answer to her affectionate touch. She’s the one to flinch then, her own lack of control making her move away as if burnt, her back finding stability when it touches her chair and her hand curling against her chest, traitorous and whispering the tale of unwanted attraction. He’s so warm, though, his skin always hot to the touch, as if a furnace burns inside his stomach, that his warmth remains with her.

He says nothing, but his eyes remain upon her, searching for answers that she’s not willing to give. She knows he finds her beautiful, has seen him looking before, but she hates the places where his eyes linger, so different from those she’s used to that it discomfits her. She’s familiar enough with lingering gazes, and she knows how to play up her own assets in whichever way is needed, preening and flirting second nature to her after years of using her own body to tease, fool and deceive, so that the huntsman’s eyes resting where they shouldn’t angers her, fills her with desire to rip them away from his face. He’s looking at her wrists, her collarbones, the slope of her neck, the scar above her lip, and Regina hates him for discovering her beauty in the places where she’s fragile, despises him for finding charm in her vulnerability when he recoils from her strength.

Brusquely, she stands up, the sight of him suddenly so maddening that she wonders at her own instincts, at her insistence on playing games such as these when it’d be smarter to keep her prisoners where they belong, be that the dungeons or nicely dug graves. She knows she’s been playing cat to the huntsman’s mouse, teasing him with soft paws just to make him react, but to allow him to become a predator to her emotions seems foolishly obtuse of her. She doesn’t _care_ for him, and she should most definitely not care whether he’s looking at her scars or her bosom, shouldn’t be pleased either way. She feels him move behind her, and when she turns back towards his figure, he’s standing up, closer to her than he’s ever willingly stood, one firm hand poised in the air as if waiting for permission to touch, and lips parted with unspoken words. Regina takes a step back – goodness, but is the fool going to ask for her well-being, or something equally ridiculous? It would be just like him, too, to feel compassion for his jailor.

She huffs, irritated, her posture tense and her hands curled into fists by her sides. “ _What_ do you think you’re doing?” she hisses.

He has no answer for her, and so they remain in a standstill until the silence is broken, their ever-faithful third companion calling for attention with a deafening howl. It’s surprising enough that Regina deflates, the sudden tension making her feel childishly silly, reacting to a single touch as a blushing virgin would. She laughs, forcing the sound so it will loosen up her shoulders and allow her to breathe with more ease, the abrupt tightness in her chest uncomfortably solid.

“How unbearably dull you both are,” she says, twisting her mouth into a snarl. “Enough for tonight, I think,” and this she murmurs to herself, for the flick of her wrist and the following spell have already banished the huntsman away and back into his dungeon, where he rightfully belongs.

The wind carries the sound of the wolf still, and Regina shivers, her bedchambers feeling suddenly chilly now that the ever-warm huntsman is gone. She wraps her arms about herself, the sudden vulnerability brought on by her prisoner’s searching gaze making her inordinately uncomfortable, as if her scars and wounds have been exposed for all to see, brought to the surface raw and festering still. Unwittingly, she licks at the scar above her lip, an old habit that mother had been quick to correct, harsh words and harsher hands making a lady out of Regina even at a young age, and despite being responsible for the mark in the first place. She had been all of six years old and in her first outing away from father’s state when it’d happened, her tiny and clumsy feet making her tumble and fall before Grandfather Xavier’s court, her bleeding lip enough to cause a commotion about her. Her grandmother, along with other ladies of the court, had cooed at her, dismissing her bumbling attempts at apologizing for her demeanor, and mother, rather than admonish her, had simply denied her attendance, leaving a permanent brand on her skin when proper care would have left nothing but healed flesh. The scar has persecuted her ever since, mother’s eyes and hands easily reminding her of past weaknesses with nothing but a look, or a grace of her hands.

“It gives character to your beauty, milady,” Daniel had said once, hands cupping her cheeks and smile big enough to warm the both of them, to chase Regina’s fears and insecurities away.

She’d laughed, foolishly careless and believing his words and reassurances far more than she’d ever believed her own. “You speak nothing but nonsense, _boy,_ ” she’d teased back.

They’d repeated the same conversation often enough, and Daniel had most certainly kissed her scar sufficiently that she’d believed it a beauty trait rather than a painful reminder of what a heavy-handed failure she could be. Tonight she feels torn, hating the huntsman and the wolf, berating herself for licking at the mark as if she could somehow erase it by sheer determination, and yet wanting to believe the precious memories of the one who had loved her most. Her mangled thoughts are disrupting enough that sleep holds no interest for her, knowing that tonight it will bring nothing but nightmares, will awaken nothing but ghosts of the past, so she indulges herself with heat and wine, throwing a thick robe over her fine dress and sitting by the fire with a cupful of the rich-tasting brew. She hates herself for brooding, and for allowing her huntsman to trouble her so, and most of all, she hates the wolf for refusing to quiet down. Without a hint of amusement, and deep into the long hours of the night, still sitting down but having consumed all her wine already, she realizes that she already misses the senselessness of the battlefield, and that it is going to be one long winter trapped within these walls.

 

* * *

 

Winter drags its days slowly, the long hours of darkness pervasive in their stillness, and the cold winds invading cloudy days that refuse to let the sun shine for even a moment. Regina likes the atmosphere well enough, having learned to enjoy the intimate comfort of the chilly season over the humid summer days, but she detests the dullness of it just as well. Winter never fails to be an excuse for everyone to hide away from the cold and regroup, after all, and so rumors of the brewing rebellion quiet down until they’re nothing but whispers, unavoidable yet easy to dismiss. Regina can hardly blame her kingdom for stepping down and away from the fighting pits, knowledgeable enough to understand that food and clothing take preference over silly battles when the winds are strong and the days dark.

Regina hides as well, though, her own hours consumed by the business of the kingdom in ways that she’s already used to, and that she even fairly enjoys. There’s something awfully tedious about inventories and commercial trading routes for furs and fabrics, but Regina has always liked sitting down and giving order to that which doesn’t have any, using a cold approach to business unlike any other king has done before her. There’s quiet satisfaction in knowing her kingdom well-managed, and she’s certainly glad that, Evil Queen or not, she can’t be accused of keeping her people hungry or unclothed; she hopes, maliciously, that her populace drowns in their own guilt when they realize they couldn’t have asked for a fairer or more resourceful leader. She’s almost tempted to give her crown to Snow White as a test, just to watch her crumble under the weight of the duties of the role – the girl’s warm-hearted approach to life wouldn’t last her a minute, she’s sure, in the face of neighboring kings prone to believing themselves superior by virtue of being men, and her uncanny ability to ignore that which displeases her would have the kingdom burning in chaos in no time.

Nonetheless, despite the muted gratification of running her kingdom efficiently, reports and polite council reunions fail to excite after weeks spent in the battlefields, and it feels to Regina as if the kingdom is teasing her yet again, this time quieting down the rumor mill, and offering her no hearsay at all. As it is, there’s very little she can do other than wish for Snow White to come out of hiding, and face her in open battle, a thought that consumes her during the long hours of darkness. Days pass, though, and the kingdom stills even further when the cold heightens until snow falls from the sky, covering the ground in shades of bright white. Regina wakes up in the middle of the night when the first storm falls, unexpected snowflakes making for a beautiful view once she steps outside to her balcony, an unwitting smile painting childish enthusiasm in her features. It’s unusual for her kingdom to see snow, only the mountains of the northern lands being crowned by such weather on particularly furious winters, and the sight delights her enough that she forgets about the further entrapment such foul weather will bring.

The first time she'd seen snow, Regina had very recently turned twenty. Snow White, nearing thirteen and barely the project of the gangly teenager she would soon become, had made use of her careless proclivity for invading Regina’s privacy and had made her way into her bedchambers late at night, nothing but a thin robe over her nightgown and an enthusiastic grin adorning her face. She’d forced Regina into her balcony despite her protests, adamant that they watch the falling snow together, and despite her grumbling, Regina had found the vision enchanting, old folk tales failing to prepare her for the beauty of it all. When Snow had insisted on them making their way outside, her smile filled with impudent mischief, Regina had advised caution, but had followed the child nonetheless, her fingers trapped within Snow’s in a way that she would grow to hate soon enough. Once they had made their way to the gardens, Regina had despaired at their carelessness, cold seeping into their bones through the flimsy fabric of their nightwear, their slipper-covered feet growing wet almost instantly when they’d stepped into the snow. She’d had no time to argue her way back inside the palace, though, for the moment Snow’s temporary penchant for misconduct had led her to throw a well-aimed snowball right at Regina’s chest, chaos had ensued. With melting water freezing her skin, Regina had been quick to answer the provocation, and sunrise had found them not much later, laughing about the gardens, chasing each other and tumbling over patches of uneven snow, wet from the root of their hair to the point of their feet, but mostly without a care in the world.

Johanna had been the one to find them, and even as she’d berated them both with a face made red from outraged disbelief, Regina had made no effort to stifle her giggles. She’d been a queen and a child, and that had been reason enough to do as she very well pleased, after all. Both her and the princess had caught matching fevers from their night out, and the moment they’d gotten sick, Leopold had been the one to do the scolding, reprimanding Regina for being a terrible influence on his always well-behaved daughter. Even with a nasty cold that had Regina’s voice weak and her nose clogged, she’d laughed at his words, and had been vicious with her own.

“Perhaps you should instruct your precious child to stop visiting my chambers in the middle of the night, Your Majesty; or perhaps you should better instruct your guards not to give into her woeful eyes with such ease.”

He’d had no answer for her, and so rather than fight her with words, he’d artlessly ordered her caged within Snow White’s chambers, where they were both to recover from their illness together and without complaint. Regina had complained, nevertheless, and when her protests had been unanswered, she’d turned her indignation towards her troublesome charge, and had punished her with what she’d already discovered was nothing but torture for the girl – hours spent with her back straight and her head held high, her voice giving shape to the words of _The Ladies’ Book of Etiquette, and Manual of Politeness._

“ _Never question the veracity of any statement made in general conversation. If you are certain a statement is false, and it is injurious to another person, who may be absent, you may quietly and courteously inform the speaker that he is mistaken, but if the falsehood is of no consequence, let it pass. If a statement appears monstrous, but you –_ Oh, Regina, must I continue?” **(A)**

“Yes, dear, and no interruptions. Do go on.”

Snow had followed her instructions with an impolite scowl that had lasted but a second and had been carefully masked by a neutral expression as soon as Regina had given her a pointed look. Regina wonders if Snow still remembers the words of the dreadful little book, and can’t help but cackle at the memory. Regina can certainly recall them even now, the handbook being the first book mother had given her once she’d been old enough to read; at age seven she’d already known it by heart, and had been able to recite full passages without missing a word. Snow had learnt it just as well, and even if she’d dismissed its lessons far sooner than Regina had, she’s positive she would recount it easily if prompted.

Memories of her step-daughter pursue her in the following days, snow falling in heavy blizzards and burying the kingdom under its cold and brutal hand. The impossible coziness of warmed chambers and thick coats goes hand in hand with the pervasive boredom of the season, bringing unwanted nostalgia along with it, and Regina finds herself chasing away ghosts of images from the past while wishing for reprieve in her present. The snow doesn’t aid her in her purpose, however, making her enemies hide further away from her while news of houses buried under the snow and bodies found dead on the cold outside begin flooding her instead. She’s prepared for the upheaval, and so furs are freely distributed among the poorest, dangerous roads are closed and prudence is advised.

The palace survives with fluidity and ease, and her army proves efficient enough that, even with paths closed and storms blazing outside, postage doesn’t falter, keeping Regina busy enough, even if with matters so abhorrent that she finds herself plagued by ever-growing irritation. While the weather has been keeping most people away from trouble, not all of her subjects are blessed by the privilege of half a brain, for surely the recent ogre attacks she keeps being informed of are nothing if not the product of careless clumsiness. After all, Regina had taken care of the ogre problem not long ago, after a battle that had ended with one of the brutish things earning himself a scar across his eye by way of fireball when he’d dared pick Regina up from the ground in one of its disgusting paws. The thing had bawled at being so singed, and Regina had discovered that the oafish brutes were nothing if not children with no brains and too much brute force, easily appeased with food and peaceful slumber. The very reason they had lost both Ogre Wars had been their lack of strategy and organization of any kind, and after a close encounter with the things, Regina is actually surprised that they had been smart enough to fashion weapons and stand their ground for as long as they had. Regina had solved their conflict by offering them a patch of inhabited lands and enough game for them to hunt and feed, and they have been hiding away in their secluded spot ever since. Regina had even give the place the name of Ogre Valley, and had warnings spread all around it, so she is of the opinion that if anyone is getting themselves killed by ogres, then it is their own damn fault for going where they shouldn’t.

“I hardly think that answer is going to appease the masses, Your Majesty,” her Military Advisor tells her, even as a small smile graces his thin upper lip.

Regina stares at him, frowning and displeased, and crosses her arms over her chest as she answers, “The masses can jump from a cliff for all I care; the _masses,_ ” and this she drawls, derision tainting the word, “want Snow White as their queen, and then expect me to protect them from their own stupidity.”

“Your Majes–”

“Ugh, save your advice, duke; I know what you are about to say and you may do as you wish. I don’t understand why I should send my men to die in a blizzard because my subjects can’t seem to grasp the meaning of _Ogre Valley, Keep Away;_ alas, I will do as I must.”

Laconic terseness takes over the palace as days turn into weeks, but eventually the storms lessen so that all that remains is a thick layer of white covering dusty paths. It’s much too cold to be outside, impossibly inhospitable, but Regina insists on at least walking the gardens, if only to stop feeling like a caged animal, ready to pounce on unsuspecting prey. She takes father with her, hanging from his arm and scolding him for wearing his thinnest coat and for refusing her offer of having a thicker one made, huffing away her frustration and ignoring his weak knees by making him walk briskly, rather than stroll lazily about.

“ _Cielo, ¿estás intentando ganar una carrera?”_ **(1) _  
_**

The quiet sass in father’s tone makes her stop short, her pursuit forgotten and her jaw immediately unlocking from its tense grimace, her shoulders lowering of their own accord rather than remain thrust forward, as if wanting to ram against imaginary enemies. She smiles, impossibly charmed by father’s shimmering gumption, which she sometimes thinks forever lost, and rests a gloved hand against the one he has about her arm. She wishes, for a minute, than it was their skin touching rather than layers of cloth.

Beautiful visions of her garden during the winter and the balm of father’s soothing doesn’t last long, however, and Regina is once again plagued by restlessness. She finds herself waking at odd hours of the night, craving something, even if she’s not particularly sure what that may be. She refuses to think Snow White has begun to steal her sleep away from her too, even when she knows that the eerie hours of the too early mornings are the time for doubts and the haunting of ghosts. Sometimes, lying awake in a bed that feels too big when the darkness is claiming the skies, Regina thinks that wanting too much may be her bigger sin, and that it may just be why she won’t ever seize what she so desires. She’s always quick to rejects such fancies, however, throwing herself in the opposite side of the spectrum, delirious when she thinks that she if she ever stops wanting so much then there will be no reason to live at all. She laughs at herself for both thoughts, and closes her eyes as tightly as she can, commanding sleep to come to her and allow her respite from the waking world. She thinks boredom may just be driving her mad.

Just when it feels as if tedium is pressing on her soul, silver lining of any kind such a faraway thought that even a visit from Rumpelstiltskin is beginning to feel like a momentary relief from the apathy, she decides to bring the huntsman back to her table, willing to forget the uncomfortable strangeness of their last encounter in favor of making him into the oddest of heroes, charged with rescuing her from the dangers of an idle mind. She finds him disgustingly ill, the cold having wreaked havoc in his weak frame after weeks of dwelling in the dungeons, where there are no fires or comfortable covers to chase away the wintriness of the season. The gauntness of his face and the cough that rattles his chest makes her feel briefly guilty, turning his visit into one more unpleasant moment for her. She ends up setting him in a wing of unused rooms, nothing but a thin cot furnishing his new abode, but a fire burning weakly in a small and dirty fireplace. She sets one of her guards permanently at his door, even when the huntsman has proven frustrating enough that he hasn’t attempted escape once. Regina hardly thinks it’s part of his plans – the honorable idiot probably thinks his penance a fair price to pay in exchange for someone else’s life.

Her decision sends gossip running around the palace, enough for Regina to find herself mildly entertained by the fancies of her servants. Whispers and innuendos are not uncommon when it comes to the huntsman; after all, he’s certainly handsome enough to gather attention, and Regina’s unusual deviation of treatment of a prisoner has been enough for him to be made into a remarkable figure around the palace. She knows they think him her lover, and has found droll amusement in the whimsy of gossip that claims them two souls tangled in deals with the devil, him an unwilling servant and her, a devious mistress. It’s certainly a change from the usual talk of the commoners, who are far fonder of whispering about her bathing in the blood of unborn children to keep her beauty and other nonsense of such sort.

It is so that Regina finds herself blue and disgruntled, looking forward to the coming spring and the fair weather as the one possible rescue from the doldrums. She had been flourishing among the flames of battles not too long ago, and it feels to her as if she’s wilting like the weakest of flowers the longer the snow surrounds her, a thought so depressing that she simply grows more irritated by the day, hoping for news that won’t come, wishing for battles to fight and a heart to crush. She wonders, idly, if perhaps the lack of news from either the rebellion or the princess is due to the fact that Snow has perished during the harshness of the winter, and her body lays dead and forgotten, buried under snow as pure and white as the people claim her to be. Regina relishes the thought but for a moment, bristling at it then when it becomes insufferably anticlimactic. The least Snow owes her is a proper encounter and contest of will, after all. Snow had walked into her life and splintered all of her dreams, and now Regina demands retribution, preferably in the shape of her heel digging into the princess’ spine until it cracks.

 

* * *

 

Tides change during the first clear night of the season, one where the cold is prevalent enough that it has a clear scent, but that sees the orange skies at sundown free of storms, allowing the snow to begin melting away, and to give way to a softer and less unusual winter. Forenoon sees Regina meeting with Duchess Adela, the heavy snows having kept her away from the palace for longer than a month now. Regina receives her in one of her smallest sitting rooms, ensuring that their quiet meeting is made pleasant, the couches under them cushy by virtue of being worn down, the fire lively and enough to chase away the wind trying to find its way through the cracks, and warm tea served with spongy currant cake. The duchess doesn’t approve of the lax atmosphere when they’re meant to be working, but Regina insists that the woman eats something before she collapses out of exhaustion, having insisted on them meeting right after her arrival rather than wait a day or two to recover from her travels. As they speak, Regina spies the duchess’ hands folding and unfolding a handkerchief repeatedly, as if in a compulsion, her hands betraying anxiousness. Regina wonders if the woman is simply desperate for something to do, idleness as bothersome to her overworked frame as it is to Regina’s.

These past few months Regina has been working alongside the duchess with clear purpose, their endeavors far more stimulating than any others have been since she claimed her crown, and most surprisingly, their dealings delightfully pleasing. They have never seen eye to eye on many matters, after all, the difference in their upbringing, and Regina’s so called dramatic tendencies more often than not causing a rift between her and the more conservative woman, but in certain subjects they have always been of the same mind. Thus, when the duchess had approached her with ideas regarding the mandatory instruction of the kingdom, noblemen and commoners alike, Regina had listened avidly. The duchess had confessed that her plans had always been regarded before as _women fancies,_ but Regina, who understood the privilege she’d had at being properly motivated towards education, had sat down with the woman immediately, light in her eyes when thinking about the project. It’s not easy, though, not when resources are limited and ignorance has proven a blessing to noblemen for a very long time now, so any change in that matter fails to gather supporters. That wouldn’t matter much to Regina, who is used by now to doing as she pleases with no one having her back, but the resistance of peasants has proven to be a hindrance just as well. It seems that any initiative that comes from her is regarded as evil, unmindful of its true intentions, and that rumors of a decree for mandatory instruction have garnered nothing but a negative response, since surely it means that the Evil Queen must be in need of raising minions, and wishes to do so with twisted teachings.  

"One would think people wish to remain ignorant,” the duchess says that evening, their plans forgotten now and her previously nervous hands wrapped around a mug of what must be cold tea by now. She sounds defeated and looks older than she truly is, her thinning grey hair suddenly taking on a ashen appearance, and the usual tightness of her lips giving way to a weary and rueful smile. Regina supposes that a lifetime of being at odds with the world would do that to you, and she briefly wonders is she’s staring at her own future.

“No one likes change, I suppose,” Regina counters, her own tone taking on the same fatigued quality as the duchess'.

It must be true, for surely no one in their right mind would reject the chance to learn to read and write, never mind which leader is proposing such a thing. Her kingdom thinks her evil, though, even when she’s trying to give them opportunities that they wouldn’t have otherwise – she dreams of a world where people might choose endeavors different to their parents' trade, where girls won’t have to marry the first man knocking on their doors for lack of knowing how to earn a living, where no noblewomen will be questioned in their power when standing without a man. She sees no evil in her imagined future, but then her eyes have always seen the world with a different shade of colors.

Her evening with the duchess proves fruitless, and the woman’s obvious exhaustion has Regina sending her to her rooms for supper and rest. She takes her own advice herself, and so the sunset sees her sitting by her vanity, half a dish of spicy soup forgotten by her table, and father’s patient hands breaking knots away from her hair. The sky is beautiful tonight, and Regina is thinking of stepping into her balcony to watch the pinkish glow the sun has left behind when her evening is interrupted, Claude entering her chambers with disrespectful hastiness and speaking fast words of a rider having arrived at the palace’s doors, the horse nearly driven to death by exhaustion and its owner an anonymous mystery.

The stranger is merely a girl, no older than sixteen and weighted down by exhaustion, and Regina, so used as she is to threats and the sudden appearance of blades at her throat, receives her with fire burning inside her curled palm, lest she allows herself to be fooled by an innocent face once again. The girl, whoever she may be, doesn’t look frightened though, but rather fascinated, dark brown eyes staring intently into the fire, small mouth puckered into an astonished little grin. The small and flickering flames glow golden against her dark skin, and for a brief moment, Regina thinks her a creature of the old legends, hidden behind the mists of time and now brought before her with purpose unknown. She closes her fist and allows the fire to extinguish, and as if a spell has been broken by her simple jerky movement, the girl opens up before her, shedding her mysterious mantel away and leaving behind a tiny child of sparkly eyes and impudent smile, unruly dark hair and nails dirty with dust not enough to hide a noble upbringing, her graceful movements enough to uncover her origins as she steps closer to Regina.

“Cousin! I am ever so glad to find you!” The girl exclaims, her words failing to register when she steps close enough to wrap tired yet strong limbs about Regina, the hug so sudden and brief that Regina finds herself suppressing a squawk of surprise. It is apparent that everyone must be suffering under the same spell, for even her most prepared knights fail to make the smallest of moves at the girl’s hastiness.

“Oh, apologies, Your Majesty,” she says then, the lack of genuine feeling behind her apology so very obvious that Regina fails to hide the upward curl of her smile. “I am so very tired you see, and I just can’t – oh, but you must be Tío Enrique!”

That said, the girl takes off towards father, his always shy figure coming out from the shadows to clasp the hands that the girl offers him. Father looks as bewildered as Regina feels, and yet enchanted nonetheless, his eyes shining as they settle upon the child. Regina bristles, a white hot poker of unbidden jealousy branding her in that one single moment, father’s eyes taking on the soft expression that Regina hasn’t received herself for some time now.

“Child, who are you?” She hisses, stepping closer to the pair and refusing to see the truth – that they look so very much alike, that if this girl would swear to be Regina’s sister, she may be inclined to believe her.

The girl looks at her with eyes open wide, beautiful enough that Regina can almost ignore the pale hue to her otherwise natural golden skin, the sharpness of cheeks that Regina guesses must have been fuller not too long ago, the bead of sweat marring the smooth forehead crowned by curls made frizzy with humidity and lack of care. Only then does Regina notice the coarse cape covering the girl, her body surely tiny and too thin under it, flesh that can’t possibly be warm if she’s been riding outside in the damp and dismal winter days. And despite the deplorable state the girl finds herself in, when she speaks next, she does it with a ringing yet delicate voice, pride filling out her words.

“I am Adriana Cristina of the honorable House of King Xavier,” she states, only to immediately loose whatever shadow of regal demeanor Regina may have spied in her by breaking into a sonorous and bright giggle.

“Adriana Cristina?” Father questions.

“What a mouthful, is it not? And so very silly, unlike me at all. Everyone calls me Ace, you see, Ace of Hearts, over this.” At this, she points to the high slope of her right cheek, right under the corner of her eye, where what’s seemingly nothing but a small and red birthmark is indeed shaped like the tiniest of hearts.

How lovely, Regina thinks, that she should find an Ace, when she already has a Queen. She snorts, pushing mother away from her thoughts and parting her lips so as to inquire about this girl’s presence and purpose. Whether Regina chooses to believe her or not, she’s certainly not obliged to provide whatever it is that the girl must surely want from her. However, she’s interrupted before she can even utter a word, and she finds herself crossing her arms in discontent, making for the picture of a spoiled child, rather than of a queen.

“Prince John is my father, your closest brother, tío, is he not?” And this she speaks to father, whose hands still remain about hers, surely soft and soothing in their touch. Father answers with nothing but a smile and a nod, and Regina has but the briefest of moments to feel bereft before the girl is once again looking her way. “I’ve been told I was at your sixteenth birthday, cousin, but then I was only one year old.”

Regina makes no effort to recall the truth of the statement, whatever memory she has of the birthday balls of her past painfully nostalgic to her. She had been hopeful and foolish and already so very in love with her impossible dream then, enjoying twinkling lights and music while thinking of a boy with beautiful eyes and a love of horses, and that girl that is no more can’t be allowed life, lest she chokes Regina with regret and insanity over paths lost. It’s easy, too, to ignore the past and stay within the present instead, with this girl standing before her and calling her _cousin_ with such ease, as if latent tenderness must palpitate between them by virtue of familial ties unknown to Regina’s heart.

“What is your purpose, child?” Regina questions. There’s already a headache pulsing at the back of her head, and she has a feeling that no matter the girl’s answer, it will only make it worse.

The girl wrinkles her noise, the gesture disagreeable in her small face, and says, “I do hate being called a child.”

The pride in her voice and demeanor is to be admired, but it angers Regina instead. That this remnant of a family that she hasn’t known for years would dare appear before her and make demands so impudently upsets her, the prodding feeling that she gave up on them just as well one she wishes to ignore. If she ever turned her back on father’s heritage then it was only necessity and survival, after all, and it’s too late to blame herself for sins so old. She finds the child offensive, nonetheless, disruptive in a life that is finally settling on solid ground, demanding when it is obvious that she has nothing to give. The arrogance of her, so very much like Regina’s own, pushes Regina forward and into the girl’s face. Regina grabs at her chin, fingers tight on the sweaty and cold skin and forces the girl’s face upwards, something like triumph settling on Regina’s chest at being taller than her, even without heels to help prop her up.

“And I do hate being told what to do, _child.”_

Regina expects fear but she gets none, the girl looking at her with something that could be read as bewilderment, but that feels like something else altogether. Perhaps her legend isn’t so widespread that the girl knows of the titles given to her, but surely the sight of her magic should have been enough to make her at least wary of her. Then again, perhaps the girl has a death wish. Regina can’t tell, and she finds herself distracted by expressive eyes that are so very much like her own that it’s discomfiting; she has been a foreigner for so long in this land, after all, trying to hide her differences away at first, and now wearing them like armor, that finding them mirrored back at her is rather unnatural, a whispered bond that she doesn’t have a place for. And yet the girl remains fearless, choosing to press her hand to the one Regina has on her chin with precise intention, surely that of calming a beast. She’s trembling, though, betraying tiredness so heavy through the fog created by proud stubbornness that Regina finds herself stepping back, releasing her and keeping them at a distance. How easy it would be to admire the dignity of the weary child, and how Regina doesn’t want such a feeling to cloud her judgment.

“What is your purpose?” she repeats, leaving epithets and names behind for now, unsure whether this girl before her must take shape inside her mind as a child, a princess, or an impish Ace of Hearts, and fairly uncomfortable with the prospect of any of them.

The girl doesn’t answer with words this time, simply removing herself altogether from father’s hold and hovering delicate hands over her belly for an instant before she pushes her cape away, the small bump that she reveals unexpected and yet failing to surprise. Regina takes one more step back and away from the girl, her own hands kept firmly fisted by her side so as to stop the instinct of bringing them to her own abdomen. Rejection brims inside her, nervous energy crawling under her skin at the unwanted sight, and she has the brusque thought of throwing the girl away and back into the cold, where she will surely die a quick and inglorious death. Even before the thought is over, Regina knows that she can’t bring herself to do anything of the sort, tight invisible hands wrapping themselves around her throat incomprehensibly, and pushing her towards mercy instead. She will regret this, she knows, and yet the certainty of the thought doesn’t stop her.

               

* * *

 

 

Thus, Adriana Cristina of the House of King Xavier becomes Little Ace of the Evil Queen’s Dark Palace, a title that she gives herself with an ironic little tilt to her head and full laughter brimming with brazen mischief. Regina, for her part, not only ignores the girl but also her wishes, resolutely referring to her by her given name, and relishing the way the girl’s nose wrinkles in distaste whenever the name crosses Regina’s lips. On the other hand, Regina makes a fair effort in not referring to her at all, dismissing her presence as if she was but a burden, one which she can’t rid herself of, but which she can easily disregard.

Nonetheless, Regina does her duty regarding the girl, caring for her with a cold demeanor but a capable hand, making sure she wants for nothing. She has her lady’s maid settle her in one of the nicest bedchambers, not too far away from her own and not too close either, thinking of long-forgotten hosting rules that dictate distant relatives to remain at a particular distance when being housed. She gives her one of the chambermaids for a maid as well, a young sweet girl not much older than her, so that they will hopefully enjoy an easy rapport if nothing else. She spares no expense on her either, splurging on a whole new wardrobe once the girl is found out to have traveled with nothing but what she’d been wearing upon arrival, clothes so torn and dirty that Regina has them burnt the moment they’re off the girl’s back. She outfits her in fine and comfortable clothing, minding her pregnant belly when speaking to her personal tailor, and making sure she has the finest of gowns for every possible occasion, never mind that most of those will never come to pass. She insists on light colors, thinking of a breezy spring and of her youth, but when the girl requests midnight blues and dark reds Regina concedes easily, far more preoccupied with dressing her than with listening to her whining.

And whine she does, for as beautiful a voice as she has, and as graceful a manner she possesses, it takes no more than a day for Regina to discern that the girl is the most annoying little brat she has ever come across. The teacher she hires to keep up her studies most adamantly agrees with Regina’s assessment, and more often than not Regina finds him trailing after the girl as she leads him outside in a fancy of fantasy, or the impending need of taking a walk outside, never mind Regina’s instructions that she should be made to read on important subjects.

“But what are important subjects?” The girl muses one cool afternoon, facing off against her teacher with a bright smile and eyes settled up and towards the sky, where the sun seems to be trying to fight the lasts trails of winter among the clouds. “Isn’t the sun above important, or the careful sound of a lyre? Isn’t a ripe apple more important at times than a foolish man-made political law? No, we mustn't learn the rules of men and ignore those of nature, sir.”

It doesn’t take long for Regina either to understand that the girl’s worlds are half cheap philosophy and half joke, spun masterfully by a too smart tongue that amuses itself by teasing her teacher. It’s a subtle way of rebelling against the rules Regina’s setting, and Regina hates that she finds her irrevocably and absolutely hilarious, even if entirely absurd as well. In that her teacher doesn’t agree, and Regina is positive that in between the pressure of the girl’s unruly behavior and the fear he has shown while in the presence of Regina herself, the man is just about ready to have a conniption.

The girl is doubtlessly fanciful, something of the fairy-like quality Regina had spied on her on the day of her arrival following her every move, shadowing her every word. She’s whimsical, a capricious little creature that makes Regina think of the old stories father used to tell her about the Isles of Avalon and the dark priestesses of the moon, hidden under the mysteries of old religion and ancient rituals unfit for the eyes of mankind. The girl’s mystery and her audaciousness are most certainly attractive, but Regina refuses to allow herself the allure, rejecting the girl’s advances and leaving her in everyone else’s hands instead.

Father, for his part, seems more than happy to play companion to her, offering his arm with ease and accompanying her in longs walks through the garden, where he laughs at the girl’s insistence on going barefooted, and where they speak in rapid and intense tones, words changing from tongue to tongue as if they can’t decide which language it is that befits them best. Regina hates her for it, for the ease with which father’s smile blooms in the face of the girl’s whimsy, with how they find themselves sharing stories of a family that Regina has no memory of, of a kingdom that was stolen from her, of traditions lost on lies set upon lies. She resents them both, for while they claim to want her they prefer each other, father’s cheeks growing warm even in the chilliest afternoons when the girl calls him _Tío Enrique,_ and her eyes shining with gentle care when he calls her _Pequeño As._ **(2)**

“She’s a sweet girl, my little princess,” father insists, “and she wants you to like her.”

Regina rejects his words, hardening her eyes when they catch his in the mirror, the moments he spends combing her hair the only time they share as of late, Regina far too busy ignoring their guest by sinking herself into the kingdom’s business with overzealous energy. It’s not particularly hard, after all, when winter is finally ready to die a desperately awaited death, making the kingdom revive itself with the first hopes for spring. Winter has been grueling and unforgiving, after all, the arks of the kingdom have suffered more than anticipated, and plans are to be made. Regina finds herself thankful for her council seeking her attention and keeping her cooped up inside the palace, making it easy for her to forget about anything that isn’t official business or matters regarding Snow White and her enlivened rebellion, her kingdom seemingly hankering for a fight with as much ardor as she herself feels.

The girl isn’t subtle or pliant, however, and she’s relentless in her desires to find a fast friend in Regina. Thus, Regina finds herself refusing invitations for long walks and shared meals, ignoring the girl when she insists on interrupting Regina’s time with mindless prattle that she pays no attention to.

“Oh, but you are irritating, cousin, ignoring me with such ease!” She yells one afternoon, the end of what has been an childish tantrum finding its closing act when she smashes a vase to the floor, her temper not unlike Regina’s in that particular moment.

Regina pays her no mind, though, choosing to fix the vase with a twirl of her wrist and a puff of magic, and eliciting a huff and heavy steps finally leaving her alone and peaceful. The girl wants a reaction, Regina knows, for she has proven to share Regina’s proclivities in more than one occasion, and Regina has always favored a negative response over indifference, finding the former all too impossible to bear. Regina refuses to give her what she wants, thinking that the girl should be content to receive her favor and care, and would do well not to ask of Regina that which she can’t give. Undoubtedly, Regina can’t be expected to spare an ounce of love for this child of the fae who has bounded into her palace like a phantom of kingdoms lost and a ghost of memories past, forcing recollections upon Regina’s mind that she wishes banished forever.

The girl reminds her of herself, and for that, Regina despises the very ground she walks on. It’s a preposterous thought, that this girl is anything like her at all, when a sixteen year old Regina would have found herself living her days inside a dark cellar where she to exhibit the girl’s most annoying habits, when even the thought of being as loud and extravagant as she is would have been excuse enough for well-deserved punishment. Regardless, the girl walking about her palace with her sweet pregnant belly, wearing eyes so like Regina’s own, pulling her chin up with so much pride in her stance, seems to her like the twinkling remembrance of a girl she had once been, running away from her own marriage with a child nestled in her insides and fear running through her veins. That girl had died, though, thrown down from her horse by a vengeful arrow, dragged through the mud until her insides had been ripped apart, and this copycat version that spouts nonsense and claims her attention with single-minded persistence brings a foul taste to her mouth, wraps bitterness around her beating heart with biting insistence.

The girl’s unwitting sins further still by the unsuspecting picture she paints in Regina’s unquestionably ludicrous mind, for she is nothing like Snow White, and yet Regina can’t help but spy strokes of the princess in the trailing wake the girl leaves behind. Regina tells herself it’s the shadow of pride in her, the brat-like stubbornness and the lack of respect for orders received, she convinces herself that it’s nothing but a trick of the mind. After all, Snow at sixteen had been a picture perfect little lady, taking on her role with natural ease and limber gentleness, when the girl’s manners suggest that she’s been raised in a barn most days, delicate gracefulness notwithstanding. Nonetheless, the chilly afternoon that she catches sight of the girl turning a corner and something as artless as the ends of her dark and shiny hair throw her heart into wild palpitations, Snow White’s spirit seemingly persecuting her through figments of her wild imagination, she realizes that she will never allow herself something as idiotic as loving the girl.

More to the point is the fact that the girl is irrevocably ill, if Regina’s physician is to be believed. He says she’s consumptive, a fact made clear by the coughing fits that wreck her body constantly, occasionally accompanied by the sight of blood, an uncomfortable truth the girl fails to avoid even with her pervasive liveliness. While her sickness has failed to kill her yet, surely the time spent riding through the cold winter to get to Regina paired with a risky pregnancy mean that the girl is living on borrowed time, holding onto life with tight fingers and stubborn pride, but very little else. The physician assures her that if she lives through the next few months, then childbirth will most certainly kill her, her body too weak for the effort of carrying another life. Regina convinces herself of this a fortnight into the girl’s stay, when not even her steadfast mule-headedness is enough to pull her tired frame away from her bed. Perhaps it’s better this way, Regina muses, for if death takes the girl away from her, then Regina won’t lose her by harsher means, her own hand too quick to bestow cruelty even amongst those closest to her, and her endeavors in fighting Snow White causing judgment to cross even the most loving of eyes. Thus, Regina refuses to love her, for love is weakness, and Regina has been much too weak in the past.

 

* * *

 

The first mild sunrays of spring bring with them news of the fall of King Charles’ kingdom, the retelling of the battle fought on the last days of melting snow that Regina receives from her army official rather drab and to the point, but satisfying nonetheless, and enough for her to make plans for a hurried journey to her new conquered lands. She hasn’t left her palace during the whole winter but for short and frustrating visits to some of the villages closer to the Royal State, and even then, her subjects had been far too preoccupied by food and shelter to pay much attention to her antics, so she takes on this trip with a smirk painted on her lips and renewed vitality. She leaves the palace without much fanfare, leaving behind her new houseguest and father as caretaker, swiftly ignoring the girl’s protests about being left behind when she so desires adventures. What Regina desires, however, is a journey lacking worries and headaches, both of which the girl has proven particularly proficient at providing, so her whining is forgotten, and Regina takes off at sunbreak of a slightly chilly morning.

Regina arrives at the small maritime kingdom and immediately makes a point of making at entrance at the Royal Palace, donning her newest gown, a spectacularly impractical purple creation of her Royal Taylor that she can’t possible wear for too long a time if she wishes to breathe at all, but which is built with the sole purpose of making an impact, high collar and lace trimmings paired with a wide skirt and a plunging neckline enough that no one would dare miss her, even if they were trying to do so. She doesn’t stay long, but the week that follows she enjoys with the delight of a queen that has been cooped up alone in her dreary palace for too long, and she finds herself laughing without a care in the world, indulging in fine food and far too much wine, being loud and inappropriate and further earning herself her given title by virtue of being everything but what a woman of her age and station should be.

Everyone around her is nervous, servants and royals both running around with too fast steps to comply with every demand, most of which are arbitrary and capricious, and are simply born of the desire of acting like a fickle brat with enough power to have everyone at her beck and call. There’s nothing quite as hilarious as ordering a rich and bumbling old count to find her a blooming orchid in pale pink colors, and watching him stutter through apologies about the impossibility of such a task with a pout in her lips and a displeased demeanor, after all. That the man begs for his life not two seconds later is but another delightful moment that brings a clear peal of her laughter into the otherwise silent air. She takes pleasure in her visit like a child would at the height of his birthday, but eventually even balls, music and terrorizing noblemen begins to get boring, and so she chooses to make her way back home, and to set herself towards the task of finding her runaway princess. Surely Snow White will come out of hiding soon enough, won’t she? Oh, but she must, or Regina may just have to burn her path towards every possible hideout in the realm.

Regina leaves behind King Charles’ newly widowed queen as warden of the land, even if the girl has been nothing but a trembling mass of limbs during the time of her visit. She’s a mousy-looking little girl, no older than seventeen, and there’s nothing attractive about her but long and shiny light brown curls framing an otherwise plain face. Regina figures her dowry must have been far more alluring than her features, but Regina is glad to spy a sigh of gumption in her right before she leaves the kingdom, when the former queen dares look into her eyes for the first time since she stepped her way into the palace, and even holds her hand like one would a sister’s.

“I don’t know if I can–I never–Well, I haven’t been taught politics, I was never expected to…” She trails off, but when she next glances up at Regina, there’s some undetermined fierceness about her lackluster eyes. “Anything will be better than being married to that man, Your Majesty, and you have my loyalty and my eternal gratefulness.”

 Regina can’t help the spike of gentle pride for the little girl, so she presses a firm kiss to her cheek, leaving traces of red lipstick behind, and assures her that she should trust the four knights of her Black Army that she’s allotted to her above anyone else, and that she should count her a friend for as long as her loyalty remains.

As her final act before she abandons her new beautiful lands, she takes King Charles’ head, and rather than put it in a pike as gruesome example for those who may intend to oppose her as she had first intended, she puts it in a box and sends it as a gift to her good old friend King George, a note joining her present with the words _I thought you knew better than this, dear_ written with the blackest of inks, and with the exquisite pen he’d gifted her all those years ago as a sign of friendship and understanding.

The journey back home finds her feeling despondent and moody, the prospect of council meetings and dull reports overwhelmingly boring now that the sun has come out and the kingdom has seemingly gone back to life. She considers her options while being throttled around inside her carriage, the roads that lead down to Charles’ former kingdom most definitely in need of repair, and one of the first things she will have to take care of as soon as she reaches the palace; honestly, the pathways are so narrow and steep that she has to wonder how many carriages have ended up destroyed in their journey south. Roads aren’t of particular interest to her, however, and she figures than rather than face obligations so soon she may just make her way to Midas’ castle, where she knows a birthday ball for his daughter is behind held; she does love showing up uninvited these days, after all, if only just for the gasping and whispering her entrances usually grant her, but even the promise of walking through that horridly hilarious golden palace fails to entice her. She finds that she’s craving blood rather than sparkly drinks and music, and she’s almost decided on a few pit stops to remind her villages of her relentless search for the precious princess when fate smiles down upon her by bringing her exactly what she needs.

A rider intercepts them in the middle of the road, a message from one of her officials claiming positive sightings of the princess enough to send Regina into a frenzied chase. She knows better than to trust witness accounts by now, even when coming from her own army, but she has a good feeling about this day, and she’s willing to hold onto whatever small excuse she is provided with. Foregoing her carriage and her magic, she jumps atop one of her horses instead, regretting leaving _Rocinante_ at the palace when the black steed takes a moment to recognize her and doesn’t follow her orders immediately. She hasn’t lost her good touch with horses, however, and soon enough she’s galloping away with precision and skill, the strong animal between her legs forcing her to flex her muscles in ways she hasn’t in weeks, and making her giddy with the feeling. She gains easy advantage over her guards, and by the time she makes it to the small settlement where she’s meant to find Snow, she has left them several paces behind, and so it is just her facing a haggard group of peasants.

“Good morning, my subjects,” she greets, delight shaping her words as she steps down from the horse.

She’s a little breathless from the hour-long and fast-paced ride she’s just subjected herself to, but the giddiness remains so that she’s happy to stalk her way to the villagers with meticulously slow steps, taking her time to recover her breath. Her stalling makes them nervous, and she watches as the small group huddles closer together, presenting a united front against their queen. They don’t make for a particularly menacing enemy, with their faces pale after the long winter and their eyes following her every movement as if she were a prowling beast.  

“My knights inform me that the bandit Snow White has been hiding in this part of the woods; now, you wouldn’t be foolish enough to try to hide her from your queen, would you?”

Deafening silence follows, the rustling of the leaves as the soft spring breeze blows the only sound until a squeaky voice pronounces, “Snow White’s not a bandit; she’s our hero.”

The voice belongs to a child, a red-headed girl with a button nose and lovely freckles that insists on her statement with a clear _well, it’s true!_ even as her mother tries to shush her, gripping her shoulder when the girl tries to shake herself away from the group. The girl is short and thin, but she doesn’t look underfed or sickly, and Regina wonders if the little thing truly believes that Snow White the hero is the one making such a thing possible.

“Is that so, my dear?” Regina questions, addressing the girl.

The girl looks at her with mild defiance, that belonging to a child with no knowledge and no sense of self-preservation, and Regina finds her brazenness delightful. She smirks when the girl repeats her earlier words, and then moves jerkily towards her, snatching her arm and pulling her close. The girl struggles against Regina’s unforgiving grip on her upper arm, but it’s her mother who speaks this time, a tremble in her voice when she begs, “Please, Your Majesty, the child doesn’t understand, she’s–she’s just a little girl.”

“Don’t sound so worried; after all, the hero Snow White wouldn’t let me snap the girl’s neck, now would she?”

The sneer shaping her lips translates into her tone, derision dripping from her voice as her grip tightens on the girl’s arm, her other hand reaching down to wrap around her neck, the pressure enough to cause discomfort but nothing else. The mother cries and the girl struggles, Regina finding herself wishing for the prompt apparition of the princess, wishing to be stopped from stealing the breath away from the child’s lungs; she’s so very young and her boldness has been such a treat to her senses that Regina may just find herself regretting her death, allowing it to weigh heavily on her conscience. Regina never bluffs in her threats, however, and the disrespectful little girl is bound to grow up into a rebellious annoyance whose hand wouldn’t hesitate were she the one to have it about Regina’s neck, so she will kill her unless someone gives her a pretext not to.

“Regina!”

Snow’s voice rings clear and precise, as does the arrow that follows her call. Regina has but a moment to be surprised, the arrow bypassing her with nothing but a clumsy grace of her shoulder before it reaches its target on the tree trunk behind her, the _thunk_ of it as the arrowhead digs into the wood loud against the mild gasp of the girl still within Regina’s hold. Regina sneers once again at the sight of the princess, standing far away but enough that her figure holding another arrow at the ready is distinguishable behind a set of thick trees, and spares a moment to regard the torn fabric of her coat where the arrow missed her shoulder with disdain.

“What is it, dear? Heroes don’t aim for the heart?”

“Regina, let her go!”

Regina rolls her eyes, the utter predictability of Snow’s response proving dull and uninspiring. Nonetheless, Regina does drop her grip on the girl, and she squirms away and back towards her mother as soon as Regina’s attention turns towards Snow, standing too far away from her for a spell to be fast enough to get to her. Regina looks at the horse then, and in the brief moment where she takes a step towards the animal, Snow reads her intentions with ease and immediately draws her bow away and turns around, taking off in an expeditious run towards where the forest is thickest. Regina reacts with equal swiftness, jumping atop the horse with long-forgotten agility and kicking the animal into a hurried persecution. The galloping horse affords her no accuracy, the first fireball she throws landing embarrassingly distant from its goal and making her concentrate on the race instead, Snow’s black hair easy to follow among the greens and browns of the woods. The ground below them is still muddy from the melting snows, however, making the narrowing paths of the forest difficult for the horse to thread, where Snow’s limber feet take her further and further away, the distance between them growing larger until Regina sees but a fast-moving blur of a figure. Relentless in her pursuit, she casts an easy tracking spell, so as not to lose the princess’ trail, grinning when the blue magic expands before her and over the gravelly paths.

Deep into the forest, Regina dismounts and leaves the horse behind, following the trail with brisk and determined steps, her riding clothes allowing her easy movement and long strides. She walks for what she believes to be a long time, her breath getting winded at her single-minded resolve not to slow down, but her eyes shining with promise. Winter has been so long and has seen her so caged that she can’t help but find vindication in the stretch of muscles, even when she knows once the rush is gone she will be exhausted by the atypical physical effort. The weather is mild and pleasant, however, and if it weren’t for the way her fists are trembling with barely repressed and furious magic, she may just believe herself to be taking a pleasant walk. The illusion vanishes as soon as she comes to a small clearing that marks the end of the magical pathway, and Regina stops her movement and stretches her neck upwards, as if the simple gesture could help her listen with more skill. There’s no sound other than rustling leaves and the odd chirping of tiny birds, and yet Regina knows that she isn’t alone, something like magic tainting the air.

“Come out already, little mouse,” she says to the clearing at large, allowing then a lull to settle before she speaks up again. When she does, it’s with casual aloofness, her tone distracted even when she’s everything but. “I suppose I will finish what I started with that little girl, then. Tell me Snow White, how many of them do I have to kill before they stop calling you a hero?”

Regina hears her before she sees her, her feet soft as whispers as they tiptoe over the gravel on the ground, her figure appearing as a ghostly shadow from behind a tree, arms stretched over another pointed arrow, her knuckles resting against lips settled into a thin, tight line.

“Regina, you need to stop this.”

“Oh, do I?”

“ _I_ will stop you otherwise!”

Regina laughs at the passion hidden in Snow’s voice, at the frustration coming off of her in waves from her tense frame and the frown between her eyes. She’s standing far away enough from her that Regina isn’t sure a spell will be fast enough to reach her, and yet she can still spy the telltale signs of anxiety and fear. Regina laughs, and her laughter is short and to the point, a bark to uncover just how ridiculous she thinks Snow’s statement to be.

“And when will that be? Before or after you are done running for your life?” Regina wonders, taunting Snow into a reaction with words and acts, her finger traveling up to her chin and tapping it as if in deep thought before she widens her smirk, searching for Snow’s runaway gaze before she speaks again. “Let’s face it, dear, you can’t even shoot those little toys of yours at me without feeling guilty, can you?”

Snow’s bowstring looses tension and an arrow flies immediately after Regina’s words and straight at her. She stops it with a whisper of magic and hands already used to attacks such as these, the metal arrowhead barely a breath away from her right shoulder, and Regina smiles. _Good,_ she thinks, Snow’s anger far more satisfying than her fear, the stubborn tilt to her head as she raises yet another arrow one that Regina is familiar with, even when she hasn’t seen it in a very long time. It’s funny, how obsessed she’s been with finding the princess, how her thoughts have turned her into the invincible champion of legend the kingdom speaks about, and how in this instant, even with at least fifteen steps of gravelly dust and a bow between them, she’s nothing but the little girl she once saved from a horse, the same one that took her hand and led her towards misery and grievous pain, and who spent over a decade trailing behind her like a lost puppy and taking from her what Regina was never willing to give.

Perhaps Snow’s thoughts are swimming in the same direction, seeing Regina as the woman she grew up with, distorted by an ugly sneer and a need for vengeance that she never dared look upon while they dwelled together as the most twisted of families. _Oh, Regina, I do worry when you’re unkind,_ she’d said, and surely Snow had discovered hidden truths in Regina that she’d disliked and later decided to ignore, always easy to think of her as a willing and loving step-mother.

Snow’s shoulders sag forward even as her fingers tighten about her bow, her tone betraying weariness when she asks, “What do you want, Regina?”

“Your head on a plate, of course, or maybe your heart in my palm; I can never quite decide.”

“Oh, Regina,” Snow cries, her frame opening up even wider as the words leave her body in an exhale, the shadow of a long held sigh revealing tiredness beyond compare. “We were a family, we were happy, and now you j–”

“Heavens Snow, I know you’re an idiot, but please pretend for five minutes that you’re not!” Regina snaps, gaining for herself the tension that Snow is losing, her shoulders straightening up and her fists tightening by her sides, bristling anger cursing abruptly under her skin, when just moments ago she’d been playfully enjoying herself.

Her anger shoots precipitously up her spine, settling itself with vigor somewhere up in her chest, a solid presence that she can’t ignore and that pushes her into action. She moves forward, intentions undetermined but palm already up, magic that she still hasn’t decided on pooling around her nimble hand, pulsing with ease. Snow’s bow stretches yet again under her unwavering hands, but it’s not that which stops Regina dead in her tracks, but rather the growling sound that inundates the space between them, its owner stepping closer to Regina with bared and menacing teeth. The wolf is immense and fierce, and it fills the air around Regina with something heavy and tight, a supernatural presence that isn’t quite as intoxicating as magic, but rather primal instead. A werewolf, then, and Regina, who’s never seen one of the creatures up close, finds herself momentarily fascinated, the beast's allure much like that of Maleficent, the primitive energy of something half human and half animal enough to steal her breath away.

“The rumors were true…” she murmurs, thinking out loud as if spellbound by the eyes of the beast, their golden hue giving them hypnotizing depth.

Regina forces herself to blink exaggeratedly, to break herself away from the illusion and return her attention to Snow White and her recovered threatening stance, her limbs tight and steady, her weapon ready to fire and her anger pushing away whatever sigh of grief she may have shown Regina just moments before. The distance that separates them is far too long for Regina’s magic, her spells bound to failure with arrows and a werewolf between them, and yet Regina dismisses her rationality and conjures a fireball in her curled hand, giving shape to the magic that has been steadily pulsing within her since she began her persecution of the princess. She has wanted a confrontation for months now, and that is exactly what she will get. She lets the fire fly away, her aim practiced and sure, and is quick to conjure a second fireball to follow, stepping forward so that the threat becomes real, her chances better to singe Snow White, maybe even to watch her burn to her death. Two arrows fly in quick succession directed at her, one missing her by a stretch and the second landing by her feet, close enough that Regina finds her heart beating hard and steady inside her chest, palpitating loud against her own ears. A third fireball appears without much of a thought, and this time it hits its mark, Snow’s whimper when it touches her hand and makes her drop her bow the sweetest of sounds to Regina’s burdened soul.

She smirks, already tasting a victory that has been a long time coming, another step taking her closer to the princess. Her rashness and determination prove to be her undoing, however, for her careless steps forward leave her open and vulnerable, so that when the werewolf jumps towards her she falls to the ground inevitably, a grunt leaving her breathless when her back touches the hard soil, the beast resting above her chest impossibly heavy. Regina’s knee-jerk reaction is to move up again, but she’s prevented by paws pressed over her breastbone and collarbone, the strength behind them making it hard to breathe. She gasps, her hands pawing at the animal’s legs, nails digging into muscles so powerful that her own limbs feel quaveringly weak and useless, the manic-like movement of them unhelpful when facing such a beast. And yet, the creature barely remains steady above her, its growling teeth a threat that Regina is certain won’t become danger, its golden eyes deep pools that issue but a protective anger. She wants to laugh, because of course Snow White’s allies refuse to murder, think themselves above such cruelty; she can’t, however, not when the creature’s weight is enough that breathing comes to her in panting and jagged little intakes of air, not enough to fill her chest so that she ends up clawing at her throat, as if she could somehow open up her own flesh and let fresh air inside. Black spots begin dancing before her, but then a ringing bellow of _Red, let’s go!_ has the werewolf removing its eyes from Regina’s face, soon to be followed by the hot puffs of its breath and the heavy weight of its paws.

Regina takes a big gulp of air the moment she’s set free, hands splayed over her own chest as she sits up, the effort almost sending her back to the ground. She swallows, wanting to look about herself and search for the princess and her beastly ally, but her head feels fuzzy and unfocused, her heart pounding with the sudden fear of having the creature perched above her, restraining her from movement and stealing her breath away. Her hand around her throat, she feels suddenly sick and she dry heaves, her free hand falling to the gravel before her and her body refusing to stand up. She fights the sickness, swiftly ignoring the hammering in her head and the breathlessness that remains, and finds herself suddenly screaming into the now empty clearing, her loud cry furiously unhinged.

“I will burn every patch of land that stands between us, Snow White! Run, run and hide all you want but I will kill you if it is the last thing I do!” She screams, hoping that her voice travels through the woods and reaches the runaway princess, wherever she may be now. Then, with one last angry growl, she disappears in a cloud of purple smoke.

 

* * *

 

Appearing inside her bedchambers in a sudden bolt of bursting magic does nothing to calm her, rather making her abdomen tight with dizziness so that she stumbles her way towards her chair, her weight dropping heavily on it once she manages to reach it. She sits by her vanity, immediately regretting the choice when her mirror reveals her snarling demeanor. A flush covers her skin all the way from her cheeks and down to her chest, the paint of her lips has smudged its way to her cheek and chin, making her mouth look like an open and bloody wound, her hair is a proper mess, curls escaping her tight bun in unruly strands that fall around her forehead and ears, leaves stuck in disheveled locks. If not for her eyes, one would be hard-pressed to question whether she’d been fighting on the ground or enjoying a rough tumble instead. Her eyes, however, feral and trapped, betray an incarnate beast with unsatisfied bloodlust.

“Princess Snow White,” she mutters to herself, teeth grinding and mouth locked tight while her hands travel up in jerky movements to pull at the dust and leaves weaved into her hair. “With her friends and her kingdom and her – a hero! They dare call that silly, capricious little girl their hero, and–”

She growls, insanity brimming under her skin as she thinks of her enemy, eyes turned down in sadness when looking at Regina, lips shaping the most annoying _oh, Regina._ How patronizing she’d been, daring to embody pity and disgust, as if Regina was in the wrong for fighting for the revenge she rightfully deserves. _A family,_ she’d said – _we were happy._ Only Snow White would dare speak to her in such a manner, would dare twist years of deceit and torturous lies, of an unwanted bed and pain buried deep within her gut, into a picture of familial happiness.

Regina snorts inelegantly, willing her eyes to recover their softer shade, but finds that she can’t, not when Snow still runs, powerful even when Regina is the one that stands as queen, an army at her behest and magic overflowing her being. The single thought gnaws at her, the stupidity of the power of legend and hearsay, the romance behind a running princess with a bow fighting an evil army and its deathly leader stabbing at her chest as if it were a twisting knife. She stands up with abruptness, grunting as her hand reaches out for whatever it can find and throws it to the floor of her chambers, her senses relishing the crashing sound, her muscles complaining at the harshness of her movement after being so poorly treated for the past few hours. What meets the floor is a perfume bottle, glass shattering everywhere and the heavy scent wafting up to Regina’s nose unpleasantly when so heavily concentrated, but even that isn’t enough to stop her frustrated irritation – a second bottle crashes right next to the first, and then a third follows. The only thing that stops her from throwing a fourth, and possibly finishing with every single knickknack resting on her vanity, is the creaking sound of her door opening.

Regina glares at the intruder before she knows who it is, but when she finally settles her eyes on the figure, she draws in a surprised and small breath, her mind confounding her. For a second, she sees herself, but she sees Snow just as well, and it is only an effort in calming her own pounding head that allows her to reveal the truth – that it is but her annoying little cousin standing before her. Truth be told, Regina has quickly forgotten about the girl during her trip outside of the palace’s walls, and the sight of her now, hands resting above her small belly bump and naked toes poking from the edge of her dress, only manages to exasperate her further.

“There was a commotion,” the girl says. “The maids were afraid to come and see what was happening.”

“And I thought them foolish,” Regina hums, plucking one more brown and brittle leave from her hair and crumpling it between her hands. Her hair feels awfully tight, and she knows for certain she will feel much better once it’s falling down her back and not heavily coiled above her head, so she reaches up with the intention of undoing the utter mayhem her curls have become. Throwing but a single glance at the girl before looking back into the mirror, she instructs, “Get out.”

“So you can break more things? What an awful waste,” the girl answers, the feigned coyness of her smile matching the impertinence of her words.

Regina would engage her in the match the girl is clearly hankering for, and she might even enjoy it, but her knees feel as if they’re about to buckle under her weight, and all she needs right now is anything that may calm her senses. A bath, possibly; and sleep, too, never mind that it’s the middle of the day still and that the sun won’t hide for a few hours yet.

“Get out, girl,” Regina repeats.

“Let me help you with your hair and–”

“I said, get out!” Regina repeats, this time turning towards her bodily and pointing a tense hand towards the door. She won’t stand this nonsense inside her own palace, long lost cousin or not.

The girl doesn’t seem to grasp the urgency of Regina’s command, or the need she has to be left alone, to do anything in her power to erase the sight of Snow’s disappointed eyes, to free herself of the weight of defeat.

“It’s not fair, I want to help!” The girl intones, stomping a foot against the floor and crossing her arms over her chest, the perfect picture of a spoiled brat. “You are not being fair to me, cousin!”

“Fair, child?” Regina snaps. “I haven’t questioned your silly story of parentage! I have fed you and clothed you and given you shelter. You lack for nothing, but you – you, snotty, spoiled child won’t even do – ”

“But I lack _you_!”

“What?”

“ _You,_ cousin! You’re my family, and we were going to be the best of friends, and I was going to soothe you and love you, and you were going to care for me and–”

“You are _not_ entitled to my love!” Regina exclaims, her voice so demanding that it cuts the girl’s rumbling speech. She feels breathless all of a sudden, the implications of the girl’s words burning heavily inside her chest, opening up past wounds that she’s afraid will fester if only Regina lets them. “Just like her,” she mutters. “Taking without asking, assuming and stomping around when the world doesn’t answer accordingly.”

“Just like who?”

And this, Regina snarls. “Princess Snow White.”

The declaration doesn’t pause the girl, but rather makes her suddenly lively, her steps determined as she approaches Regina and her eyes set in a tenaciously stubborn frown, as if readying herself to fight Regina’s will. Regina doesn’t relent when the girl steps towards her, but she feels magic uncoiling at the back of her head, travelling down her tired arms with ease, reviving her with unexpected darkness; this girl isn’t a threat, and why her first instinct is to reach out and crush her heart Regina doesn’t understand. She’s pregnant, heavens, and at least Regina has enough reason remaining to respect that much. The girl, on the other hand, seems to have no reason but a true flare for the dramatic, for the moment she finds herself before Regina, close enough that her breath tickles at Regina’s cheek, she spreads her arms and throws her neck back, as if offering herself as some mystifying sacrifice.

"Go ahead then,” she whispers. “If I’m just like her take my heart and crush it, do it, claim your title and finish my unworthy life! What use is it to me, an outcast and a victim to my own folly, unloved by my family and destined to be scorned by every eye settled upon me! Punish me and let’s be done, for I’d rather die as myself than live as a cheap copy of the princess that haunts your dreams, cousin!”

And in the face of such declaration, spoken with the precise clarity of an actor in a tragic play, Regina can’t help but laugh. It’s not immediate, not when her head feels mangled as it is, the joy of the past few days that Snow has stolen with a single and too fast encounter pushing tangible anger to every empty crevice of her insides, her body weary and her thoughts troubled, so that this girl irrupting in the privacy of her bedchambers like an irritable bug has only thrown her towards the edge of furious frenzy. She stares befuddled instead, the girl’s pompous declarations jarring in their fake quality, and yet infinitely amusing the moment Regina deflates and her shoulders sag forward, as if defeated by the girl’s cheek.

“A tad dramatic, dear.”

The girl laughs with her, her smile bright when she stares at Regina, and her eyes shining with mischief. Once again, Regina is reminded of an impish fairy, a child not of this world.

“What is life without a bit of drama? I figured you’d enjoy it, cousin. One can’t dress like you do without appreciating drama, truly.”

Regina lifts a single eyebrow, taking stock of her ruined clothes as she hides a smile away from the girl, choosing instead to give into the pang of her complaining knees and sitting back down in her chair. Her skin remains flushed and she looks as disheveled as moments before, but her eyes look more hers than they had before, as if a bloodthirsty beast has banished to the darkest corners of her soul, ready to pounce once Regina needs it again. Her magic, too, is subdued, nothing but a comforting hum at the back of her neck, rather than the uncontrollable force it has become as of late. As she takes a moment to inspect herself in the mirror, the girl moves behind her, reaching for her coiled hair and starting to undo it before Regina has a chance to utter a protest. She sighs, allowing the delicate touch as she wrinkles her nose at the state of her clothes, torn in places and despairingly dirty, and then decides to ignore her uncomely appearance altogether and simply conjures herself a cupful of wine to drown her tiredness in.

The girl finishes her job quickly enough, but when she makes to reach for a hairbrush, Regina shakes her head no and motions towards a second chair instead, so that she will know herself welcome this time. The girl nods, but rather than sit down immediately, she lowers her face to Regina’s level so her chin is nearly resting on her shoulder, and looks at them both in the mirror. The similarities are truly uncanny, and Regina doesn’t know why she finds them so uncomfortable; she has looked for such a thing in the past before, after all, standing in mirrors next to mother and even Snow, and she should be glad to find the features of the family she never met in this girl’s face.

“It’s funny, don’t you think?” The girl wonders, pulling faces at the mirror, prodding her own cheek and pushing her nose up unbecomingly. “We have the same eyes and the same hair, and yet you’re far more beautiful; it must be your mother’s influence,” she says, nodding as if she’s just decided that her own statement is correct. “Was she truly beautiful? Aunt Louisa says she was as beautiful as she was wicked, but then Aunt Louisa thinks wearing anything but blue before noon is wicked.”

That said, she laughs, giddy and small, and then finally moves away to pluck herself down on the chair next to Regina’s. She fixes her skirts about her, hiding her naked feet under her clothes and straightening every wrinkle, her demeanor that of a demure and mindful lady.

“She says _I’m_ wicked,” she continues, the stream of words unstoppable even as she busies herself with her clothes and with pushing her loose hair behind her shoulders. “Mama agrees, and so does my sister Margarita.” She scoffs, the annoyed little pout that mars her features cutesy and infantile. Regina thinks she should cure herself of such habit, but then the girl keeps talking, and Regina finds that it’s difficult to think at all.

“Perfect Margarita who can do no wrong; oh, but she spends her evenings in between the sheets with her lady’s maid, and drinks herself stupid whenever mama isn’t around, but _I’m_ wicked. Then again, mama _does_ care; papa only has eyes for big brother Felipe. Oh, but papa is so different from Tío Enrique; one can’t help but feel loved with Tío Enrique’s eyes upon you, and he does love you so very much.”

Regina bites her lip when the girl stops to take a breath, her smile only prevented by her last words. She has never doubted daddy’s love, not for a minute, but for as much as he loves her, Regina isn’t particularly sure that he likes her very much anymore, and she can’t help but feel a pang of jealousy at the bubbling youth of this cousin of hers, and about how easily she has conquered father’s heart. How could she possibly begrudge him, though, when he’s found nothing but a mercurial tempest in her for years now? She thinks, wistfully, that it’s been months since they last shared a piece of dark chocolate.

“Then there’s of course–”

“Goodness, Adriana Cristina, do you ever shut up?”

The girl smiles at her, obviously disgruntled by Regina’s choice of title but seemingly ignoring it for the time being. The eyes she offers Regina then are full of sadness, however, sorrow unlike Regina thought this sparkling creature before her could possess. “I suppose when you know your time to be short, you can’t help but want to say everything at once.”

There is no possible answer Regina can give to such words, so she gives none, choosing instead to pose wavering eyes on the girl's frame. Regina has known consumptive people before, a not uncommon disease even amongst noblemen, but the girl's countenance doesn't betray any such symptoms at first glance. She does look a sigh too weary for someone so outwardly cheerful, bags under her eyes suggesting restless hours of sleep, her delicacy perhaps more a sign of sickness than that of personal nature. The girl is so very tiny, even smaller than Regina herself, her ankles and wrists thin and brittle-looking, her cheekbones sharp and her shoulders slight, and it surprises Regina how she doesn't implicitly hint at weakness. Perhaps it's that her spirit shines where her body can't, or perhaps it's that Regina harbors wishes of health for the strange invader she has welcomed home. She berates herself for such thoughts - it won't do her any good to grow fond of someone so very obviously condemned to an early death.

Regina takes a fast and sudden sip of her drink, foregoing daintiness once the liquid touches her surprisingly parched tongue and draining the whole cup in one long gulp. Her back complains at her movements, so she pushes herself back onto the chair to rest her own tired frame, carefully avoiding calamitous thoughts of the girl before her and her own cracking bones both. Inescapably, she can't help but look at the small bump rounding the girl's belly, her hands resting above it and her thin and long fingers twitching restlessly, a sign perhaps that even this bit of silence is entirely too much for the vivacious child. The physician had said that the girl is three months along, and the bump is at once too small for such a babe and too large for the girl's puny frame, making its presence awkward and confounding, as if not quite belonging to the same reality Regina and the girl do. Nevertheless, the girl never shies away from it, keeping her hands mostly hovering above it, and choosing gowns that open their fabrics around it, so it will be quite visible. Regina had never truly showed when she'd been pregnant herself, but she can't help but feel that she would have taken quite the opposite stance, choosing to hide away her vulnerable state to a world that she had felt fighting against her. It doesn't matter much now that her womb has been sealed, which is most definitely for the best. The kingdom has proven itself to be an enemy at large, after all, and it wouldn't do for the Evil Queen to have the vulnerability of a child by her side.

"They were going to make me marry," the girl says suddenly, pulling Regina's attention back to her and away from filling her cup once more. "That's why I ran."

Regina looks at her, and pointing a finger at where her hands still rest above her belly, she questions, "The father?"

"Oh, no, some _duke,_ " she answers, distaste obvious in the way she curls her mouth. "Some duke who's kind and generous and stupid and boring, and who would have been the unhappiest man alive had he married me. I would have taken pleasure in making him squirm, I think."

Regina smirks, can't help but remember her own narrow-minded efforts to make Leopold as uncomfortable as humanly possible, a small price to pay for the sins he had committed against her flesh and spirit.

"The father is one of twenty, who knows? It doesn't matter much, does it? This baby will be nothing but mine."

The statement softens Regina's lips into a wistful smile, and before she can help herself, her own hand is splayed above her own belly, a painful reminder of things lost. This is the very reason why she'd been so adamant about keeping the girl at arm's length, this power she has to bring the past to the forefront of Regina's mind while Regina is busy burning away lands and villages just to chase the ghosts away. This early afternoon, however, even when the girl's reflection is showing her shades of herself at every corner, she can't bring herself to turn away the company. Perhaps her encounter with Snow has left careless insanity behind, or perhaps the living hand of loneliness is playing tricks with her heart.

"You won't force me to marry, will you, cousin? Because I will run away, even if all I will find is death."

The girl looks at her with fiery eyes, even when her stance and tone are both soft, truth hidden behind every syllable, and Regina moves without much of a thought, hand stretched forward and fingers curled lovingly until her hand is settled on the girl's cheek, her body leaning forward to give an unwitting caress. Her hands feel shaky, but such a feeling must be nothing but an illusion, for her fingers are nimble in their touch, soothing and caring in ways that Regina sometimes believes herself incapable of, with how used her limbs have gotten to violence and harshness. Nonetheless, her hand is gentle, her thumb tender when it brushes the reddish birthmark next to girl's eye, that tiny heart that gives her what must surely be her fairy name - _Ace of Hearts_ , and as much as Regina has insisted on referring to her as nothing but _the girl_ inside her head, then and there she decides to steal father's pet name, and have her be _Little Ace._

"Marry whoever you wish, darling girl, if at all," Regina tells her, forbidding her voice from trembling, from being overcome with emotion over granting a gift that she never received.

Little Ace only smiles candidly, her hands surging upwards to take Regina's own and squeeze, unbidden sentiment in both gestures that Regina finds herself wanting to shy away from. It must show, for soon enough the girl is biting her lower lip self-consciously, and offering, "Should I leave you alone, cousin? You must be tired, surely. I could have supper sent up to you, maybe; Tío Enrique does worry when you miss your meals."

That the girl asks for her wishes seems like more of a concession than Regina has ever gotten, and so that's enough that she doesn't wish to see herself parted from Little Ace, when some moments before she had wanted her as far away as possible. She finds that she would rather amuse herself with her mindless chatter than risk dwelling on the sight of Snow's disappointed eyes settled upon her, on her wavering voice even now confused about the reasons behind Regina's rightful persecution.

She twists her lips, as if she's granting the highest privilege with her next words, and says, "Help me out of these ragged clothes; we shall share lunch afterwards."

 

* * *

 

After her encounter with Snow White, Regina doubles her efforts when it comes to finding the princess, finding fresh purpose when she spies the bruises her werewolf friend has left behind on the skin of her collarbones. It seems to her that Snow has turned into the equal enemy she so desired, after all, even if her running away proves that she remains frightened enough to allow her kingdom to become her shield and Regina's scapegoat. Regina figures the princess will only gain in confidence the longer she's free, however, and so she tightens her patrols and keeps her eyes and hands in every place that may offer the girl some form of escape, whether it be by land or sea.

As it is, Snow isn't her only problem, thieves and pirates proving to be annoying enough that she must spare resources to keep them in order, whether it be by decimation or lighter punishment. She's found that the cutting of fingers is usually sanction enough to discourage minor burglary, but that organized gang that call themselves the Merry Men continue to be a thorn on her side. At this point, it doesn't matter much to her if their leader is that enchanting man she'd been so enamored with for a moment at the last Summer Festival, and she's issued an order for his head to be cut on sight, as well as those of his men. To think that those filthy pickpockets actually make themselves up to be fighters of justice, when all they manage to do is force Regina's hand into further and harsher violence.

Pirates become a sudden preoccupation for a few weeks as well, her newest Master of Ships falling prey to the bloodthirsty Black Beard and being returned to her in several pieces, to her own disgust and that of her council, only Little Ace managing to find morbid fun in the thought of paying them back with equal retaliation. Regina fails to understand the girl's enthusiasm at the sight of severed limbs, but she listens for a minute and takes a page from her book, thus finding herself her own pirate captain to name as the new Master of Ships. Duchess Adela calls her decision ill-advised, and this time even the Military Advisor joins her opinion, but once Regina meets Mark Red, Pirate Queen of the High Seas, there's very little anyone can do to convince her to give up her idea.

The so-called Pirate Queen only accepts the official naming and royal decree after Regina agrees to climb aboard her ship for a day, where she shows her the orange colors of the waves as the sun gives birth to the day, conquering Regina's curiosity with tales of far-off lands in her lilting and broken accent. Later, when Regina accepts an invitation to her cabin and between her legs, she tells Regina of her true name, Nubia, given by a mother that died when giving her life and only to be spoken by trusted allies and friends. Regina allows herself to be called by her own name just as well, foregoing titles in the face of this beautifully exquisite woman that now has command over the biggest fleet of the realm, and nothing but a tremendously vague set of rules to do with Regina's enemies as she so wishes.

Regina remains in the ship for as long as a week, and Nubia seizes her senses further with stories of a long forgotten home that smells of cumin, coriander and cinnamon, where the ground is covered in nothing but sand and where the sun shines on clear skies every day of the year, making water the most precious gift. Her skin makes easy conquest of Regina just as well, the sight and taste of flesh darker than her own, smooth even if marred by the scars of a thousand battles, making for long and sensual nights being rocked to sleep by the sounds of the sea and the easy breathing of this woman with dark eyes and a darker legend.

"I should steal you away for myself, my queen; we should conquer the seas together," Nubia tells her on her last day aboard the pirate ship, hands soft on Regina's breasts and mouth hard against her thighs.

Regina laughs, softness brimming in the sound, and replies, "The seas for two queens, dear? No, I shall rule the land, and you will be my hand in the waters where I can't reach."

Regina leaves the ship with a sly smile etched between her lips and tales which she refuses to share with Little Ace for as long as a three days, teasing the girl into tantrums and childish begging a new pastime that they both secretly enjoy. The girl has a taste for stories and fancy heroics, even if such blusters come from pirates and Evil Queens, and Regina is happy to oblige if only because she pays the favor in kind, her tongue loose and fast when it reveals anecdotes of the home she left behind with the hopes of bargaining herself a place at the Dark Palace with nothing but gumption and an overgrown belly. Father, for all of his own love for fables and myths, has never been entirely too forthcoming about his family, perhaps because mother had forced him to leave it behind but for the odd ball and the oddest visit, the only purpose that of preparing Regina for a future as queen. Little Ace, on the other hand, paints her family with broad strokes, a skillful artist with words, her voice a delight as she speaks of the family Regina has been cheated out of.

Truth be told, Little Ace's stories are as filled with joy and candidness as they are with blood, a family so large and so used to feuding for the crown that old Grandfather Xavier still clings to even at the doors of death, that brotherly bonds hold no meaning anymore. Regina can almost imagine the wreaking chaos of grandfather's kingdom, if only because if mother hadn't tried to make her play for his crown, then surely the price must have been much too steep to pay. Rationality tells Regina that the kingdom father had left behind wouldn't have offered her a better opportunity at freedom and dreams than her life had, but fantasy always holds brighter lights than reality, and so Regina prods Little Ace until she feels as if she's lived among the people the girl so easily speaks about. It seems to her that Grandfather Xavier may have liked her after all, reverent as the stories make him of mother's hunger for power; that Aunt Louisa would have despised her on principle and without question; and that cousin Margarita would have helped in her quest to escape her manor's walls to meet with Daniel at the stables.

"Aunt Ilse would have adored you," Little Ace tells her one afternoon as they walk down the beach arm in arm, Rivers behind them scowling at the sand entering his boots and at having to carry both Little Ace's shoes and Regina's own.

"Oh?" Regina prods.

"She did say that you were temperamental, but then she always has one word for every person, and that word they remain for the rest of their lives no matter what they do. She called me whimsical, and Margarita dull, and my sister never forgave her for that, you know? But I do love Aunt Ilse, and she helped me escape father's manor when I felt as if I would never be able to leave."

"Temperamental?" Regina replies. "The woman never knew me."

"There were news enough of the Rise of the Evil Queen," and this she says as a proclamation, her giggles denying what feels as the title of an epic tale of woe and her impish little face smiling with mischief. "News of denying countless marriage proposals, temperamental; wearing black at a wedding, temperamental; riding about among your men, oh Regina, temperamental; spending your days doing heavens knows what with a pirate lady-"

"Temperamental?"

"Temperamental!"

Regina laughs with the girl, constantly and impossibly amused by her antics now that she has allowed her a little space within her life, if perhaps not as much as Little Ace wishes for herself. Walking down the beach together has become their small ritual however, particularly after the physician’s insistence that short and tranquil strolls are good for the girl's health, and the salty breeze of the sea the best of natural medicines. That he'd implied that Regina's delirious agitation would find a balm of sorts just as well in the practice had been answered by a glare, the memory of Leopold's Royal Doctor and his persistence on Regina’s hysteria not too far away from her mind, despite the years passed. Regina has taken the advice, however, and as much as she'd rued the beach for many years, knowing it to be Leopold's favorite landscape and her own tastes far more inclined towards the fresh grass of the Royal State and the scent of her apple tree, she finds that she very much enjoys the colors and the aromas it offers, the feel of her naked feet as they walk by the humid sand of the shore unexpectedly pleasant.

The palace has brightened by virtue of Little Ace’s presence, father finding comfort in walking the girl about the garden or spending long hours together in the library, and most servants sincerely delighted by her easy disposition and her quirkier habits now that they know they won’t be punished even if Regina catches them paused in their tasks just because the girl has chosen to declaim her favorite read atop a table for everyone to hear, or even if they rush to comply with her wishes while they always seem wary of approaching Regina in too fast steps. Regina concedes as much of her affection as she can bear as well, sitting down by her apple tree with Little Ace during long afternoons while she reads her correspondence, and taking most of her meals with her and father, happy that they share a common love for the flavors of their home. Sitting together, they feel like Regina guesses a family must, and above all, they look like one. Dark eyes and dark skin that would have afforded them the epithet of exotic beauties tie them together by blood, and Regina finds that it’s unexpectedly easy to banish mother’s ghost from her table with Little Ace’s non-stop blabbering joining father’s quiet demeanor and her own mercurial temperament.

Nonetheless, the girl wants more than Regina can give, and so Regina finds herself shooing her away from her bedchambers late at night, refusing to let her lie down and sleep next to her, as well as demanding peace and loneliness in the days that find her sullen and obsessed in ways that Little Ace can’t possibly soothe, and artlessly refusing her attention when her mind is focused in the business of the kingdom. Thus, they find themselves at peace with as much regularity as they do at war, for Little Ace is not one to acquiesce quietly to Regina’s requests, and Regina can’t abide by her rebelliousness. Whatever the case, they come back to each other with as much ease as they come apart, a shared meal or Little Ace’s delicate fingers playing the harpsichord enough for Regina to forget tantrums and childish bellows that mother would have surely punished with swift severity.

If Regina refuses to become the surrogate sister Little Ace is hankering for, however, then that is primarily due to the days that find the girl weak and indisposed, unable to leave her bed despite lively protests that her health is no hindrance. Little Ace grows sicker by the day, though, her frame shrinking and her bulging belly both stealing away her beauty and making her look emaciated, almost underfed. There are days when Regina can’t bear the sight, and she adamantly stays away from the girl when she’s bedridden, knowing that she’s well taken care of in between the good hands of the doctor and father. It seems that the girl is bound to die, if the physician is to be believed, and Regina ignores the thought with steadfast determination, running away from chambers pervaded by the scent of decay and refusing the thought that she will cry the death of the child. She’s fond of her and very little else, after all, her presence more a forced nuisance than a welcome friendship.

It’s not particularly hard for Regina to direct her mind and efforts towards other endeavors, too, not when Snow White still runs and when the kingdom still protects her. Regina spends long days away from the palace in searches that bear no success and very little in the way of information. It’s becoming more apparent to her, however, that the brewing rebellion has found its way to magic and that more and more they are choosing to fight fire with fire. And of course the fairies would choose to plead themselves her enemy when they refused to answer her prayers as a child; capricious creatures the lot of them, arbitrary in their acts of kindness and their condemnations, making use of their dust with self-righteous grandeur. She shouldn’t be surprised that they’ve chosen Snow White, after all. Regina is not particularly worried by the weak efforts made by unorganized peasants and small creatures, but she’s not dimwitted enough to underestimate an opponent, never mind how outwardly weak. Many have made that mistake when regarding her, after all, and that has been their downfall.

Regina escapes the palace not just for battles and persecution, but for balls and simple meetings, adamant in keeping control over her noblemen as well as her peasants. The thought of Baroness Irene and her ultimate betrayal remains with her still, the memory of digging a sword into flesh that she’d cried on and whispered secrets to, however fake, persecuting her to the point where she’d refused to further attend the Summer Festival, shutting down romantic childhood notions and giving the celebration to her people as nothing but a reminder of the wrong choice the baroness had made.

Nobles are good in their groveling and posturing, trained as they are by a lifetime of courtly lies, and while most of them still hold a grudge over her making them leave the palace, she knows there’s hardly much opposition where they’re concerned. She can’t trust them, of course, but it’s obvious to her that most of them will choose their own heads over that of Snow White any day. Old Countess Ninny, who had been old when Regina met her and remains as such to this day, and whose true name is only remembered by long dead relatives, is even determinately on her side, offended to this day by the time thirteen year old Snow, all gangly limbs and clumsiness, had emptied a cup of tea right on the countess’ favorite embroidered dress. The countess maintains that the child had done it on purpose, that her apology had been forced between giggles, and that such rudeness shan’t ever be rewarded with a crown. Regina, laughing at the old story, wisely chooses to omit the fact that she’d been the one to trip Snow all those years ago, making her tumble right into the countess’ lap.

Journeys and battles do little to appease Regina and her restless mind, or to help her avoid the days where quiet hysteria and awful despair take over, her thoughts circling themselves until she’s convinced that nothing is ever going to change. There are long days where she feels trapped and inconsolable, where father and Little Ace fail to reach the walls of her heart, when the thought of Maleficent doesn’t appease her, when she feels as if she’s condemned to live in a limbo of persecution, the princess forever close and yet never close enough, escaping her grasp and growing stronger with every misstep. She grows anxious then, caged inside her palace and unprotected outside of it, afraid both of catching Snow White and of never managing to do so, anticipation of what the world will look like in any scenario gripping her chest tightly and coiling unknown tension in the pit of her stomach. She refuses food in the worst days, every morsel feeling like lead and only wine calming her senses by making everything softer around the edges.

Her moods change from moment to moment, and sometimes she feels as if she’s at the bottom of a well, screaming for no one to hear. Days become an endless procession of long black nights and grey mornings then, failure sweeping over her with the strength of waves. She grows scared and she hates herself for it, fear not at death, but at life itself. She fights despair then with her best weapons, making the huntsman a scapegoat for the sins of an opposing kingdom and the princess he chose above her, prodding at his heartless spirit, taunting him until his hatred is palpable, teasing his anger out of him so it fills his empty spaces. It is a strange day, then, when she comes to find him sitting at her table with a smile curling his thin lips, tiny yet genuine, possibly the most feeling he’s been allowed for years now, if the way he’s resting his palm above his hollowed out chest is any indication. Next to him, Little Ace is reading a poem with the air of a famous bard and the emotion of the protagonist of the tale herself.

“I see you found my pet, dear,” Regina says the moment the poem is finished, making her way towards the table and sitting daintily, the three of them making for a bizarre picture.

“Were you hiding him? And what is his tale?” Little Ace wonders, closing her book in favor of throwing a pair of shiny eyes the huntsman’s way. “Oh, is it morbid and forbidden? Will you tell it with passion and despair, sparing no drama for a captive audience?”

The huntsman looks as bewildered by her pixie cousin as Regina had upon her arrival at the palace, and his wide-eyed look of surprise is almost enough to make Regina smile. In the face of such entertainment, prodding the huntsman into anger seems both dull and futile.

“Yes, huntsman, won’t you tell my darling cousin your tale of woe?” She teases, reaching forward and for a rich smelling veal stew while the girl is otherwise entertained. She hasn’t been eating enough, and Regina makes sure there’s a large portion served before she can complain; if the huntsman manages to be amusing enough, Little Ace will eat without noticing what she’s doing.

What the huntsman says is, however, “I refused to kill Snow White, and the queen took my heart.”

The short declaration steals a laugh out of them, the huntsman’s lack of enthusiasm at humoring them just as amusing as if he’d chosen to retell his story with pomp and glamour. Regina is the one to tell the story herself then, smirking with quiet delight when the huntsman’s eyes grow harsher, his glare more unsubtle by the minute as Regina’s words slander him as the worst of traitors and the biggest of fools, turning his heroic acts into misplaced loyalty and making out of his punishment nothing but the price owned for choices wrongly made.

“Now dear, don’t look so disgruntled,” Regina says once she’s done with her tale. “I speak nothing but the truth.”

“Oh let him speak, cousin, let him!” Little Ace begs on his behalf, clearly amused and entertained, her empty plate proof enough of that. “Tell me, darling huntsman, _why_ did you save the princess?” She asks.

“Because she’s innocent,” the huntsman answers, such strength behind his simple statement that one would be forced to take it as sure fact. Regina can’t believe that she has avoided asking this very same question for so long now; she wouldn’t have tortured herself with the possible answer has she known it would be so childishly pedestrian.

Little Ace must surely think the same, for her own answer to such statement is a clear laugh. “Innocent, you say? How could you possibly know? Did she bat pretty dark eyelashes over rosy cheeks and look at you with woeful eyes?” She scoffs then, crossing her arms over her chest petulantly. “So like a man.”

Despite such declaration, Little Ace grows fond of the huntsman or, at the very least, of teasing him good-naturedly, and sometimes with pointed cruelty. She's full of pride, her little cousin, and her tongue isn't shy when forming sharp barbs, the decision she's made on supporting Regina's quest without question but rather with the conviction that her vengeance is nothing if not righteous one that warms Regina's heart beyond comprehension. Regina hardly needs reassurance, not when the Evil Queen has the extreme luxury of not caring about what other people think; it's the gift the people had given her when they bestowed such a title upon her, and it seems like too little compared to what has been taken from her in exchange. Little Ace's open trust touches her in places she believed empty, however, tingles at corners of her heart that she thought long gone, and the feeling exhilarates her as much as it scares her - she has lost so many children already, after all, the ghosts of her unborn little thing, of beautiful Prince Bernard, and even of the Snow White that she'd rescued from a runaway horse forever haunting her.

Nonetheless, the huntsman Little Ace wants, and the huntsman she gets. Regina muses that the girl must be a little enchanted, the handsome broodiness of him that irritates Regina so attractive to a younger audience. It hardly worries her, not when Little Ace's attentions are nothing if not fickle, and when she flirts with every person she crosses paths with, be it blushing maids or cocky soldiers. She's even taken hold of Regina's forever shy Treasury Master, whose beady eyes follow her every move as if she were but a goddess. During her first weeks at the palace, when Little Ace had confessed to a lifetime hidden away inside her bedchambers due to her illness, Regina had wondered about the chances of a girl so trapped ending up with a bump in her belly product of an unknown father, but watching the girl work her magic, she's hardly surprised now. After all, the huntsman seems equally charmed by the girl, and Regina would separate them viciously if he didn’t make for such a good babysitter, his warm voice a soothing balm for Little Ace's worst tantrums, and for the moments when the girl steps down from her world of fantasy and is burdened by the reality of the encroaching hands of death.

 

* * *

 

Regina turns thirty one, and it occurs to her that she's growing old. Already an old woman by the standards of royalty, made undesirable by her widowhood, her lack of an heir and her infamous uncontrollable temperament, the date brands her with a sigh of despair. Thirty one, and happiness seems like the dream of a silly fifteen year old that had hoped for love and freedom and had gotten death and imprisonment instead, a fanciful collection of folk tales woven by old and unwise mouths. Snow White will be twenty-four soon, and the thought gnaws at her, uncomfortable.

" _Pequeño As ha preparado una comida especial para ti_ ," father tells her early in the morning, right after offering her a beautiful bracelet for a gift, simple yet expensive, father's taste always unexpected but splendidly lovely. **(3)**

"Oh no, daddy," she complaints. "No celebrations, no rituals of time passing."

Regina's thoughts this morning run more along the lines of paying an overdue visit to Maleficent and drinking herself stupid, after all, and she fears she will end up snapping angrily at whoever wishes to celebrate in a different manner. She has woken up with the thought of Daniel haunting her today, forever eighteen years old and nothing but a boy to the woman that Regina has turned into. It's unfair, and she wishes to forget within the warm embrace of familiar arms, beautiful blue eyes and currant wine strong enough that her thoughts will swirl pleasantly instead.

Father doesn't let her get away with her whining, however, reaching out with firm hands and cupping her face so they're looking straight into each other's eyes, gazes so similar that Regina can't help but smile. With her sitting down and him standing up Regina forgets for a moment about how tiny he's become, how age and the burden of a wife and a daughter unsuited for his brand of quiet love have diminished him, his frame growing smaller with every day that passes, his presence disappearing into the shadows, dwelling at Regina's back rather than at her side. Suddenly, she feels twelve all over again, and she moves so her hands are resting above father's on her cheeks, sharing warmth.

" _Cielo,_ come have lunch with your family," he says. "Forget - forget... for a day, just for a day."

And Regina understands his silent pleading; forget Snow White, forget Daniel and revenge and blood spilled, forget your kingdom and your despair and come have lunch with your family. Her family, her very own family; not Cora's or Leopold's, not whatever construct she's been forced into by someone’s privileged hands. Abruptly, Regina surges up and into father's arms, searching for an embrace willingly given and loving enough that she may just remember that she's not completely alone, that no matter how old and despairingly grumpy she grows, she will never be anything but a little girl in the eyes of her father. And if being a little girl before mother had been nothing but bitter weakness, being one before father is but sweet nonsense that she can allow herself even if just for a day. He whispers softly in her ear once she's firmly encased within his arms – _cielo, Regina, my little princess,_ in a voice that soothes all ills, and an unbidden sob crawls up her throat and away, escaping her grasp, embarrassing if not for father's shooing noises mollifying her sudden sadness.

Regina concedes to father's request, and so she foregoes heavy gowns and embroidered corsets in favor of donning comfortable clothes, thin since the weather is light. She wears her hair down, too, allowing curls that will frizz up as the day goes by, overelaborate hairdos entirely too exhausting to even think about today. Little Ace has a picnic ready for her, a rich tablecloth spread on the ground by her apple tree and light concoctions of every kind for them to share, mostly fruits and warm broths that are pleasant to the palate. She has even made most of them herself, her penchant for walking into the kitchens and donning an apron one that had thrown Regina's cooks for a loop and that had made Regina laugh for days when Mary, the Head Cook, had come grumbling to her about capricious ladies stealing her pots and pans and her kitchen not being a playground. Mary has gotten used to Little Ace by now as much as the rest of the palace and as much as Regina herself, and has even learnt a few new recipes from the girl’s hands.

They barely move throughout the day, a short walk about the gardens that Regina commands after a hearty lunch being the only exception to the lackadaisical nature of the day. The day is warm enough and the garden is resplendent under the light spring weather, most plants having escaped death at the hands of the blitzing winter by virtue of their Royal Gardener’s talents, the same good old Fritz that had taught Regina to care for her apple tree and that remained father's closest friend within the palace’s walls. Little Ace tires easily these days, however, her vivacious spirit failing to conquer her wilting body, and so their walk is short-lived, even as the girl clings to father’s arm for a lifeline. Thus, the late afternoon sees them back under the apple tree, Little Ace reading from a book with grandeur and pomp, as she so loves to, giving her characters life with nothing but her delightfully engaging voice.

“These torments are for, she said, a test:

My husband makes me suffer in this way

To rouse my virtue, which too long a rest,

I know, would cause to perish and decay.

If such is not his plan, at least I’m sure

That what the Lord my God intends for me,

By such prolonged affliction, is to see

How far my constancy and faith endure.

How many wretched women heed

Only their own desires; they go

By paths of danger, paths that lead

To empty pleasures, then to woe! – Ugh, I already hate her; why must patience and compliance be valued so as womanly virtues? Meek, Aunt Ilse would have called her, and hardly with kindness. Was Snow White meek, cousin?” **(B)**

Regina laughs, contentment to the sound. “No, noisy child, she was not. A little docility might have done her arrogance some good, actually.”

Little Ace raises a curious eyebrow at what she must see as a concession on Regina’s part, but keeps reading nonetheless, her voice growing softer as the girl grows obviously more tired. She has been desperately curious about Snow White for as long as Regina as allowed her to prod her on the subject, and she always finds herself surprised when Regina’s words shape something unexpected in the lost princess’ character. Regina thinks a little jealousy might be at play, the long years Regina spent coddling her step-daughter perhaps inducing petty envy, even if Regina harbored deathly secrets for as long as those years lasted. Nonetheless, Regina refuses to speak ill truths of the princess Little Ace insists on talking about in the past tense, her own way of banishing her away from the palace. After all, Snow’s sins are enough that she’d be a fool to downplay her as less than she is – a foolish and meek child wouldn’t have been much of an adversary, and if she’s to be defied so by someone that grew next to her and by her hand, she must confess to virtues where they exist. Snow’s virtues hardly make her undeserving of Regina’s blood seeking hands, as they do nothing to change a past packed with violations and crimes.

More so, as the girl keeps reading of Griselda and the torture she graciously endures at the hands of a maddened husband, Regina remembers how as a child Snow had loved the tale, and how as the years passed and the prospect of marriage and obligations assaulted her she’d developed a nearly sickening contempt for the heroine of the story. She supposes gentle and forgiving Griselda can’t possibly hold any interest for Little Ace either, this girl that rebelled against her parents’ wishes to keep her restrained to a bed by having every single guard and physician join her in it. While Regina’s immediate instinct is to dismiss the tale just as well, a part of her can’t help but admire the waiting game of the protagonist, the quiet and tolerant willingness to endure.

Little Ace’s voice dies eventually, almost at the same time the sun begins to wane, giving way to a sky full of orange paleness. Regina wishes for another tale, liking how her mind has been at rest since she first sat down next to father and the girl, both of them gifting her with quiet enthusiasm during a day that her former family had so very easily ignored in the past. And isn’t that ironic – that silent, good little Queen Regina hadn’t been given the privilege of aging, and that the Evil Queen does? The duplicity strikes her as odd, for surely the kingdom would agree that she deserves nothing. Then again, the kingdom has never truly wanted her, meek, evil or otherwise. Regina shakes the thought away by passing the book of folk tales to father, whose smooth voice conquers both her and the girl with ease. It most certainly makes for a more soothing solution than Little Ace’s usual one, her predilection for making the huntsman read to her just to berate him for his passionless speech later positively hilarious, but ultimately frustrating.

Evening continues to fade, and while Regina finds herself distracted by the lingering pleasantness of the day, she misses Little Ace moving closer to her with each moment that passes, so that when the girl rests her head on her shoulder she stiffens in return, surprised by the gesture. The girl must notice, but she doesn’t relent, keeping her eyes on her own hands splayed on her belly even as Regina turns to her just as well, gaze unwittingly dismayed. Tender motherly gestures had once been an instinctual part of her arsenal, easily bestowed upon Snow White with half-truths and hidden agendas, but that time is long gone, and Regina has shied away from Little Ace’s touch with determination, only the odd caress to soft cheeks escaping her unintentionally. The girl has been respectful of her boundaries, the shadows of Snow far away from this girl that has awareness by leaps and bounds, where the princess had assumed herself loved by birth right. Regina knows she’s been hankering for more, for the ease of sisterly touch and comfort where Regina has given none. Tonight, however, she gives into the pull, wondering if perhaps she wants it too. She has never known tenderness to be paired with unconditional affection, mother’s touch always hiding a sharp edge and Snow’s always mingled with bitterness. She passes her arm over Little Ace’s thin shoulders so the girl leans closer, resting against her with her face against her collarbone and her hands on Regina’s lap, her whole body turned her way as if Regina is protection against the outside world. She sighs even while Regina remains stiff, uncomfortable at how fragile Little Ace feels between her arms, brittle and sick and tired. Regina feels as if she may kill her if she only squeezes too hard, and she feels inadequate in the sheer trust being lavished upon her.

Suddenly, Maleficent and that drink feel like the right idea all over again. Regina stands up from her position on the ground abruptly, startling the girl away from her and making father’s speech stop. He looks up at her with fear lazed in his gaze, and Regina hates that he has come to expect anger from her, even if she doesn’t quite know whether it’s him he hates for it, or herself. Her arms reach up and she finds herself hugging her own frame, an old protective and downsizing instinct kicking at the worst of times as two pairs of eyes wait for her next move. She smiles, something small and blithe, barely concealed bitterness before she makes up her mind and reaches for the girl, hands splayed before her.

“Come, let me take you somewhere.”

Little Ace doesn’t have a second of doubt before she’s standing up before her and waddling her way toward Regina’s outstretched arms, a blinding smile curving her own lips. She has always whined at Regina leaving her behind in her outings after all, and while she won’t be taking her to a splendorous ball, she has a feeling that her romantic heart might appreciate the decadent charm of Maleficent’s fortress better. The thought of her friend and distraction in mind, Regina spares a moment to press a kiss to father’s cheek, a whispered _thank you, daddy_ falling from her lips as if by accident just for him to hear, and then takes hold of Little Ace’s hands in her own, and disappears.

 

* * *

 

They arrive at an empty chamber, and even before Regina can utter a word and warn caution after the dizziness of magical transportation, Little Ace has taken off from her side and is staring about her with wide eyes and curious fingers. Regina has to abate her get natural inclination of following the girl around, preferably with a blanket that she can cover her with to fight the ever-present draftiness of Maleficent’s fortress. She does nothing of the sort, but she keeps steady eyes on her wobbling figure, the girl ignoring any discomfort in favor of inspecting trinkets haphazardly thrown around the room, dusty old tomes piled carelessly over every surface and shiny yet pointless bagatelles strewn around carelessly. _It’s a dragon thing,_ Maleficent has always said regarding her collecting habit, but Regina has always thought it’s a too short attention span and no real interest in anything beyond flavorful drinks.

She feels Maleficent before she even hears her, her presence as she walks towards her pervading every corner of the room, the scent of magic clinging to her and the sound of her dress following soon after. Regina doesn’t turn her way, but she smiles softly when a hand slips about her waist and rests low enough on her abdomen that the touch is a sigh away from indecent, Maleficent’s frame warming her back as the witch leans down and places a lingering kiss against Regina’s cheek.

“What is that you brought me, little girl?” Maleficent questions, hot puffs of her breath humid against Regina’s cheek. “Lunch?”

“ _That_ is my cousin, and you _will_ behave.”

Maleficent laughs, and the sound curls pleasantly about Regina, chasing thoughts of broken tenderness away from her mind. It’s been far too long since she came here, she muses.

“If you have any appreciation for that tiny thing you’ll stop her wandering before she pricks herself with something she shouldn’t.”

Regina rolls her eyes good-naturedly, turning around in Maleficent’s arms even as she calls for Little Ace to come sit down already, her shout of _Adriana Cristina_ not appreciated by the grumbling girl. She comes closer however, her eyes all the more round when they settle upon Maleficent.

“You’re Maleficent, are you not? Oh, tales do fail to do you justice, I believe. Is it true you can turn into a dragon; you _must_ let me see! Stories do speak of terrible and powerful dark magic, and Aunt Ilse always did say that one should take care with shape sifters, never one thing or the other, and always untrustworthy she said, but alas, I _did_ read abou–”

“Does it shut up?”

Regina laughs, delighted as Maleficent, primitive and wonderfully feral, looks about as puzzled by her little cousin as one possibly could. “Not particularly, no,” she answers. Then, to the girl, “Sit down and behave yourself, dear.”

Little Ace concedes, perhaps because she’s more tired than she’s willing to admit even to herself, but even as she’s dropping heavily on one plush armchair, dust flying around her the moment her weight is settled, she smiles cheekily and proclaims importantly, “I hardly think you would like me one bit if I behaved myself, cousin.”

Maleficent breathes a chuckle against Regina’s cheek, and winking at the girl with impudence and mirth, she murmurs, “I suppose we can keep her.”

They sit and let Little Ace talk then, the story of how her moniker came about one that she always enjoys telling, and Maleficent always content to let others do the talking as she drink and laughs. Regina drinks herself, finding the comfort she’d come looking for as she begins feeling like a sleepy cat in need of a tender touch, being conquered by the kind of drunkenness that takes her past the point of elegant moping she has gotten so fond of, and which only Maleficent has been privy to before, and is almost always responsible for. Regina curls into Maleficent’s side and closes her eyes tightly, accepting the caress of nimble fingers carding through her loose hair while at the same time hiding herself away from Maleficent’s knowing look. The topic of her cousin is one she doesn’t wish to discuss, never mind that she brought her right into the wolf’s mouth, and she won’t give Maleficent the satisfaction of doing so, even if the witch’s eyes have already rested on Little Ace’s bulging belly with precise accuracy.

Regina had only told Maleficent of the vision her unicorn had offered her after a lot of prodding and even more wine, her own mind betraying forlorn thoughts with impossible melancholy, the tangible feeling of a baby against her breast one that left her bereft and assaulted by phantom desires. And of course she’d thought of the vision the moment Little Ace had appeared at her palace’s door, hopeless and ruined, begging for salvation with tired eyes and a claim of shared blood. Regina has even allowed herself stray thoughts of a future with a toddler running about their feet, one that would inevitably look like her, one that could perhaps grow to be the heir Regina will never give birth to. Hope has been such a tricky thing, and loss such a twisted tale for her, that she has mostly ignored such ideas as fanciful dreams, including those that insist on binding together her magical fantasy and her little cousin. It would make sense for them to be one and the same, but Regina’s dreaming visions never fail to ring true when she thinks of long, blond hair, curls hiding a face and a scared voice that Regina sometimes longs for unwittingly.

The appearance of Cruella and Ursula is enough to make Regina forget about most preoccupations, and almost enough to drive her pleasant tipsiness away in one single stroke, both witches reminding her of why exactly she has been keeping despondently away from Maleficent for some time now, her friendship with the so called Queens of Darkness tightening her chest with something that she refuses to call jealousy. How absurd, that she could be so of drunken binges and ridiculous behavior. Still, when she mutters a childish _do they live here now, dear?_ with a raised eyebrow and just for Maleficent’s benefit, all she gets in return is a finger under her chin and lips pursed in disapproval.

“Now don’t pout and don’t be jealous, little girl. It doesn’t become you, and it’s terribly tiresome.”

Regina only huffs, and she figures that the sound is a good enough answer for Cruella just as well, her drawled _look, darling, if it isn’t the Evil Queen_ as she openly laughs already grating. And honestly, it’s not that Cruella and Ursula don’t offer a bit of unexpected fun, but there is so much posturing to their personas that exasperation is a given whenever she spends time around them both. Maleficent seems to enjoy their company with terrible ease, however, the tongue-in-cheek tone she uses when referring to their self-appointed group title more often than not bringing a smile to her usual brooding demeanor in unsuspecting ways, the mischief of youth shining in her deep blue eyes. Regina finds them all stupendously juvenile, and not only because she feels a little bit left out of the whole ordeal.

Regina dislodges herself from Maleficent’s grip, childishly morose as she busies herself with Little Ace, whose complaints don’t deter her from conjuring a blanket and pressing it carefully to her frame, covering her lap and her belly. The bags under the girl’s eyes speak of exhaustion, the little wine she’s had making her sleepy, too, and Regina considers retiring herself altogether before the girl insists on staying, obviously delighted at being allowed outside of the palace and in the presence of such colorful characters. Cruella raises her eyebrow at her tending of Little Ace, but Regina chooses not to take the bait, knowing by now that when it comes to the strange woman it’s easier not to bite.

They sit together instead, and then proceed to drink too much and speak of absolutely nothing at all, Cruella’s eccentricity and the tales of her foreign land failing to be engaging in the face of her banality, even Little Ace giving up on her after being victim to her drawling voice and the way it inevitably drips with disdain pointedly directed at obvious weak spots. She’s feeling particularly acidic tonight, her favored drink of gin taking her wits away so that even Ursula scolds her lightly; they make for such a terribly bizarre pair, and Regina can’t wrap her head around the sea witch, with her put on bravado and eyes that speak of something precious and forever lost, and her obvious affection for Cruella of all people. Regina has no wish to engage either of them enough to understand, though, not when every conversation is like pulling teeth, a competition of sorts to prove which of them is worse than the other, as if depravity is something to boast about and wear like an honorable badge. It’s most certainly a change from Regina’s everyday world, where every single one of her steps is questioned and deemed reproachable, but both Cruella and Ursula manage to make everything into children’s play, boorish and pointless with their tasteless jabbing; they seem to think her pursuit of Snow White puerile and frivolous, a pastime of sorts for a queen with too much time on her hands, and Regina refuses to be made feel pointless and callow by them and their ridiculous fancies.

Humiliatingly and carelessly enough, sleep overtakes her, and she wakes up to a cloudless if dark sky and the discordant sight of Ursula and Cruella wrapped around each other in the opposite couch, a tangle of furs and tentacles that Regina doesn’t bother thinking about too much. Her mouth feels pasty and foul, and she wrinkles her nose as she considers leaving with no goodbyes before a pounding headache inevitably settles on her brow. A warm bath and rest other than drunken sleep on an uncomfortable settee might be what she needs after the odd day she’s had, but when her eyes find Little Ace’s armchair empty of the girl she groans, her visions of comfort fading away. She relights the dying fire before she goes in search of her, rubbing comforting palms over her own arms in search of heat, and then wanders for only a brief moment, finding Little Ace fast asleep and comfortably tucked in Maleficent’s bed, the witch standing guard at her side and looking uncomfortable.

When Regina reaches them and leans against the bed’s frame, Maleficent says, “She’s sweet.”

“I would say annoying at best.”

Maleficent snorts, elegance prevalent even in such a gesture, and tears her eyes away from the girl so she can look at Regina, crooked smile and shiny eyes almost as tangible as a touch. “Denial has always suited you well, I guess.” Then, as if scolding her, “You already love her.”

Regina dismisses the statement with a wave of her hand, crossing then her arms over her chest and walking a few steps closer to Maleficent, her eyes on her own hands when she insists, “I’m merely doing right by her; one doesn’t turn family away, dear.”

It’s a spot on recital of an old rule, mother’s voice taking over her own with swift efficiency and forcing her to unwittingly straighten her own posture. It’s funny, how Regina thinks mother may have broken her own laws had she been faced with Little Ace’s soiled reputation and unbecoming demeanor.

Maleficent hums, considering, and her next words are softer, shadows of pity in the sadness of them. “She’s dying.”

“I know,” Regina snaps.

“She’s dying and you already love her. You’ll blame your princess for daring to live once this girl is gone and buried, and you’ll burn everything in your path and feel righteous in your quest,” Maleficent intones before chuckling gently. Her tone is almost forlorn, and Regina guesses she must be as drunk as Regina feels hangover.

“And I suppose binge drinking or whatever it is you get up with those two is far more edifying,” Regina counters, scowling as she vaguely gestures towards where the other two remain thankfully asleep.

Maleficent steps closer after that, fast and dizzying in her movement one minute and entirely too slow the next, her hand velvety when it lands on Regina’s cheek briefly, only the pads of her fingers lingering for a moment too long, tickling and leaving an imprinted tingling behind.

“I told you not to be jealous; it’s untoward.”

“Don’t patronize me, Mal.”

“And who will if I won’t? Rue the day I begin trembling before you, my darling. There will be no friends left for the fearsome Evil Queen if we’re at odds.”

Maleficent makes as if to turn away, but Regina reaches out, finding her wrist and holding on, keeping her in place. She knows better than to think that Maleficent remains still if not out of her own desire, but she fools herself enough that she draws a smirk on her lips, leaning closer even when it forces her neck to bend further back just so she can keep her eyes on Maleficent’s. Her blue gaze betrays amusement, and Regina hates the childish levity that lingers there these days, product of her friendship with the other two witches. Regina prefers her callous and brooding, and despises herself for her own selfishness towards this woman that means more than she will ever dare admit to herself.

“What of the day when you have no time for old friends anymore?” She wonders, trying for non-chalance and missing the mark by a mere sigh, betraying vulnerability that she wishes she could bury deep within her gut.

The laughter tinkles this time, soft and seducing as Maleficent leans close enough so that Regina has to drop her eyelids not to double her vision. It does the trick of forcing her to breathe deeper, the scent of burnt wood and wine prevalent in the air and on Maleficent’s skin, so that a delightful shiver crawls up her spine when Maleficent whispers, “Don’t you worry about that, my darling, you will always be my favorite.”

A kiss lingers on the corner of her mouth, delicate but not shy, and then Maleficent leaves her completely, stepping back and away, Regina’s grip on her wrist slackening with ease. Years ago they wouldn’t have stopped at a kiss, and the sight of both Maleficent and Little Ace doesn’t sit well with her, evoking thoughts of a life that might have been hers, but that she chose to let slip through her fingers.

“We must get back,” she says, abruptness in her tone and in her imperious movement as she walks with the purpose of waking the girl up enough for the short trip back to the palace.

She stops short, however, when Maleficent offers flippantly, “Let me take you.”

Regina raises an eyebrow and looks at her friend, whose fingers wiggle vaguely upwards, her eyes twinkling with sudden and primal energy, far more intoxicating than any werewolf Regina may ran into.

“You’re drunk,” Regina accuses, even when Maleficent’s offer is tempting, both for its nature and its rarity. She can count in the fingers of one hand the amount of times she’s seen her turn into a dragon, and it was only once, all those years ago, that she’d been offered flying privileges.

“Dragons don’t get drunk, ungrateful little girl.”

An incredulous chuckle, and then, “Are you sure? I’d rather not die by mountain crash; it would be rather anticlimactic, don’t you think?”

“Stop dawdling now, Your Majesty, and wake the tiny thing. The offer has an expiration date.”

Regina pouts, a brief concession to amusement of old, when she’d truly been a little girl and Maleficent the most impressive woman she had ever laid eyes on, capable of making her flush red all over with nothing but a withering gaze of her blue eyes. She’ll forever hold the same fascination, but the years have jagged them both, and it discomfits Regina that Maleficent is no longer the frightening figure of years back, looming above her on a darkened chamber, as threatening as she’d been alluring. Regina had sacrificed their tempestuous ardor to an altar of revenge, but she knows that had she chosen differently back then, they would have burnt each other out eventually, both their hearts torn to pieces too small to even have a complete one between the two of them. They have their remnants, however, traces strong and caring enough that Maleficent is willing to offer the impossible to a girl that is bound to die just because it may offer Regina respite from the thought.  

Little Ace’s elation is palpable by the sheer wordlessness she sinks into the moment Maleficent turns before them, dark smoke giving shape to the most beautiful creature Regina has ever laid her eyes upon, gargantuan eyes turned forest green and deep purple scales, both smooth and hard to the touch, power so indescribable that the sight steals Regina’s breath away, and makes her heart palpitate as if it had come back to life after a too long sleep.

And so, they fly, rain and wind on their faces as they soar through the skies, not weightless but rather grounded, muscles, strength and beauty below them, and limitless starry darkness before them, so that when their feet step back on the ground, the soil of the palace’s gardens feels quaveringly shaky and unstable, immaterial and nearly unfriendly. They come together as Maleficent ascends back into the air, gusts of wind nearly pulling them to the ground as her wings lift her up with agile grace, tethering each other with limbs that tremble still. They look up, and they’re laughing as they do so, breath heavy and chests heaving with unwitting effort as they marvel at the sight one last time, Maleficent perching herself on the hard spikes of the palace before taking flight, fire burning the sky.

“How wonderful, how impossible and extraordinary, how…” Little Ace whispers softly to herself.

Regina’s ears rush with sound still, and she has to make an effort to even hear as much, so she pulls the girl even closer, mind free of awry thoughts. Little Ace feels cold between her arms, and when Regina looks down at her, her lips look dry and her eyes feverish, her forehead clammy with sweat rather than rainwater, and the shine of her gaze more delirious than it is enthralled. Regina pushes damp hair away from her eyes, and even as the girl repeats a fervent _how wonderful, cousin, how wonderful_ with her face turned towards the sky, Regina takes them to her bedchambers, magic doing away with what would have been a heavy wobble of a walk.

The girl rests on Regina’s bed, exhaustion taking over and skin much too hot to the touch leaving behind traces of broken agitation. Regina, feeling restless and much too energized herself, spends what little remains of the night at her balcony, looking up as the cloudless night turns into a quiet and mild morning, the sky shining pale blue and promising warmth. Wherever Snow White may be dwelling today, Regina wonders if she looked up at the sky last night, and saw a mighty dragon soaring through the heavens, and felt revenge soaring along with it.

 

* * *

 

Little Ace falls ills, and the moment Regina sees her coughing up blood while still wrapped in her own bed linens, she wrinkles her nose and averts her eyes, wanting to escape the sight with desperate urgency. She has her guards carry her back into her own chambers, and promptly sends the physician to her, along with her lady’s maid and father, impulsive in her own compulsion of ignoring the situation altogether. The physician comes to her with words of coughs and weight loss, of impossible blood loss, of a frame too feeble and a baby that seems adamant in wanting to kill its mother, but Regina orders him away and threatens his head if the girl fails to receive to best care possible. The physician, a short and white-bearded man with papery hands and a terrible habit of pulling at the skin of his fingers until nothing but red wounds remains around his nails, displays bravery enough to assure her that the babe will be lost and that the girl herself won’t last the month, and dares prompt her to say her goodbyes now that there’s still time. In lieu of his gentle honesty, Regina lets him keep his head and merely orders him to bring other capable men of his profession to seek any possible option, while ignoring his suggestions of visits and goodbyes.

The girl asks for her but Regina refuses her calls, turning snappish to whoever insists on her doing otherwise. Nonetheless, the thought haunts her, the knowledge that somewhere behind closed doors death is looming close, ready to tear away that which belongs to Regina, and her blood thrums when her fingers lay idle by her sides, purposeless once more in the face of sickness. She puts herself to work then, calculated precision in her movements as she crams her time with tasks and duties, finding herself thankful for the interminable dullness of Duchess Adela’s reports on education degrees that will never come to fruition, for ogres that defy their latest pacts and run amok wreaking havoc, for thieves to execute and an army that trains before her attentive eyes with as much passion as it always has. If she finds herself empty of burdens then she takes _Rocinante_ out to the Royal State, no saddle or reins, freedom incarnate under her so that they both drain themselves of energy and conquer dreamless sleep, so that if she falls she has bruises enough to ground her to her own flesh.

A fortnight passes, and on the eve of the last night, the huntsman’s wolf begins crying with vexatious resonance, its sorrowful howls an echo of misfortune. Regina curses the beast but sends the huntsman to the girl, orders him to become balm and comfort and decisively disregards the pity that clouds the gaze he settles upon her. When the gesture fails to calm the wolf or her own swirling thoughts, she chooses to abandon the palace, King George’s invitation to his son’s engagement ball suddenly becoming her saving grace, even if she’d cackled when she’d first received it.

Regina takes the longest roads possible to George’s castle, and even then, she arrives days before the main event is to be held. She enjoys her unexpected entrance however, her smile mocking when she finally meets George after such a long time of conflict and petty fights, delighted by how he’s the one to have come crawling back to her with his tale between his legs after all.

"George, dear, it’s been far too long,” she whispers, her voice poisonous like snakes and the grimace she receives in return for her efforts amusing if nothing else. At least George is smart enough to understand and accept his defeat, and if only for that, she may be willing to rekindle their business talks.

The days run fast within George’s Royal Castle, the scent of salt and the sound of the waves crashing against the rocky canyon calming by nature, and its gardens lovely even if the memory of Prince Bernard and their meeting all those years ago still permeates her surroundings. She makes sure to mention how much she favors the place enough to make George worry that she may just capriciously decide to take it for herself, finding delicious pettiness in keeping him on edge. She molds most of her behavior under that same pattern, toying with the men that surround George in much the same way she’d done many years before. They’d been pleased to call her _bold_ then and had taken pleasure in her overstated flirting, and this time around they’re equally receptive to her games, if their responses are fear and a constant state of alertness instead. Regina enjoys herself immensely, laughing too loud and not holding back, taking control of every chamber she steps into with nothing but low-cut cleavages and the curl of a smirk, pleased that this court around her buys the surface and the polish, fears her suitably and doesn’t even imagine that there may be cracks hiding under the posturing.

Nonetheless, she remains irritable, her arbitrary irascibility making servants scram away from her quickly and efficiently, well-aware of how easy it is for her hand to punish with nothing but a gesture. The thought makes her scowl, particularly considering that King Midas, father of the bride to be, is about as clumsy as a newborn puppy, and much more of a menace with his cursed hands than she is with her own flighty temperament. Everyone seems to like him rather than fear him, however, and Regina thinks them stupidly ludicrous over such a choice – she’ll take a malicious devil over an ungainly buffoon any day. If anyone seems to agree with her reasoning, however, then that’s Prince James, whose run into the king after a particularly staggering maneuver almost ends up in tragedy. Tragedy for the royal family, in any case – Regina figures the prince turning into a lovely golden statue might be the best thing he can do for his kingdom. Be that as it may, Regina can’t help a grin when she finds the bedraggled prince absconded in an empty balcony and breathing heavily, hand on his chest as if he’s escaped a terrible monster rather than a bumbling king. Then again, Regina knows how often both can be one and the same.

“Getting along with the in-law, I see,” she declares as she steps her way towards the railing and next to the prince, whose whispery tirade of _damn, so close that last one_ stops with immediacy.

James looks up and directly into her eyes, which may just be a brand new occasion for him and his usually wandering gaze, and Regina would find it in her to be surprised if only his next move isn’t even more baffling, his bumbling _Your–Your Majesty_ being hurriedly followed by what must surely be the worst bow Regina has ever been presented with. He bends far too low, and his shoulders tense under the strain, his fingers splayed far too wide and his eyes thrown to the floor, rather politely lowered to suggest the proper submission of the gesture. It’s so painful to watch that Regina has to laugh, the sound more clear water and less sandpaper that as of late.

“What is this, dear? Is George having you re-trained now that you’re to be a husband?”

“Your Majesty?” He squeaks, raising himself up again and standing far too straight this time, his shoulders thrown backwards with such adamant tension that she fears he may topple over and fall down. If that isn’t suspicious enough, then the eyes that face her, large and devoid of the prince’s signature kohl, fraught with candid emotion, give him completely away. However, before Regina has time to wonder at just what it is that’s being revealed before her, the prince points awkwardly behind him, and says, “You must excuse me, there is… uh, business, yes, business that I must attend.”

He doesn’t try for a second bow, and artlessly scuttles away with as much grace as he possesses, which isn’t much at all. He throws one last loud and impolite _Your Majesty_ her way before he’s completely gone, leaving Regina with the shadow of a smile teasing at the corner of her mouth. Well, if that hadn’t piqued her interest.

Regina doesn’t see the prince again until the engagement ball, a luxurious affair thrown with the sumptuousness that she’s come to expect from George, made all the more apparent by Midas’ golden touch. The bride to be, a vision in ocean green and dirty blonde curls, looks about as thrilled to be there as Regina supposes she may have been on the day of her own wedding, and seems to be indulging herself with wine in much the same manner she had as well. Regina spares a brief despairing thought for the princess before she dismisses her altogether in favor of her prince, looking rather dashing himself in a deeper shade of green. He doesn’t look particularly enthused by the whole dazzling grandeur either, but at least he’s doing his best at pretending to be interested in whatever Duke Wentworth, weathered down by age and with a penchant for sharing old war stories and getting lost in the middle of them, is trying to tell him. If Regina had thought him changed days before, then his outward politeness only furthers her intuition regarding the prince she’s only known to be little better than a scoundrel with far too much charm for his own good before. And this man before her, well, he may look like Prince James, but he most definitely isn’t.

Regina prowls closer to him for a moment, content to play her own game of polite appreciation with Duke Wentworth, who insists on calling her _loveliest queen_ with something close to lightheartedness, while she feels outwardly for signs of magic. There’s nothing there, however, and no matter how much she narrows her eyes she doesn’t manage to spy a glamour of any kind. He’s his own man, then, and suddenly the knowledge she’s held all these years of George’s dealings with Rumpelstiltskin click into place with the delight of a puzzle solved. She laughs, seemingly at nothing at all, and with the joy of a mischievous child, has the fake prince dance with her. Not one to deny the Evil Queen, he complies without a single protest, even when he looks as if he would rather stand on the opposite side of the room instead, and while he’s eyeing the high collar of her dress as if it may just jump at him and poke his eyes out.

They settle in the middle of a dance floor that unintentionally makes space for them, and Regina realizes that she hasn’t danced at one of these things for years, little Prince Bernard being her last partner, and despite his age and lack of experience, perhaps no more clumsy than the man she has chosen this time around. The prince’s hands are far too soft as they settle at her back and against her own hand respectively, and yet his frame manages to be stiff enough that his spine risks cracking.

“Dear, you are going to have to do much better than that if you expect to fool anyone,” she tells him, searching his eyes with a twinkle in her own.

He says nothing in return, but when his lips settle into a thin line and his gentle face betrays a sigh of fury, Regina decides she likes him even better. She does so hate docility, after all.

“Now,” she instructs, ignoring his thinly veiled displeasure. “Loosen up your shoulders, dear, you want straight but not tense; and that chin of yours, it’s meant to be high, not pointing towards the heavens, what are you even trying to accomplish?”

He follows her instructions wordlessly, his posture relaxing and giving way to a naturally regal frame. He may not have the upbringing, but he’s solid under her grip on his shoulder, and the correction immediately turns him into more of a loosened up prince and less of a peasant with pretensions of royalty. He cuts a debonair figure, and when Regina compliments him with a patronizing _good boy_ he tightens his grip on her reflexively, bringing her closer and fixing their stance into a more proper dancing frame. Regina spies his intentions then, and before he can move forward and push her into the dance, she steps forward instead, leading him where she should allow herself to be led. His gaze is indignant, and she answers it with a raised eyebrow.

“Not quite a prince, but I suppose you’ll do,” she says, the piece of music allowing them a paired dance, rather than one that has them sharing with more people, thus granting her speaking space. “What are you truly? A shepherd?”

His answering scowl is enough of a giveaway, but he remains stubborn when he replies, “I am Prince James, Your Majesty; perhaps the change you spy is but a sign of maturity.”

“Delightful, but your hands betray callouses other than those of a sword,” she replies, opening her eyes fully as she stares right into his. “Further, if it’s Prince James you want to call yourself, you should perhaps consider staring down women’s cleavages, rather than their eyes.”

He clamps his mouth shut after that, ignoring further jibes with admirable stubbornness, and refusing her any kindness when she requests two more dances just for the pleasure of making him uncomfortable. If the court seems surprised by her favoring the prince or suspects ill-intentions on her part then they do as they’re supposed to do and keep their mouth shut, particularly when George’s demeanor gives the impression of enjoying Regina’s toying with outward delectation he wouldn’t have granted had this new prince been his actual son. If Regina wonders what has happened with the true prince, then the thought is fleeting, the amusement of this angry yet gentle substitute enough to grant her the distraction she’d come searching for.

Finally, she leaves George’s palace with a rested mind, the scent of the sea remaining with her even as her carriage takes her away, leaving behind a promise to further discuss commercial trading and a secret to be used were George to ever prove problematic again.

 

* * *

 

Regina chooses the longest road on her way back to the palace, much as she’d done when she’d traveled away, and it seems to her that the sight of her home comes entirely too soon nevertheless. The palace looms, dark and pointed, casting its shadow over the surrounding forest, and Regina wonders how anyone ever thought that such a place should ever belong to anyone but the Evil Queen. The walls had waited for their rightful owner, but Regina feels a touch of breathlessness the closer the carriage takes her to her home. Indescribable tightness gnaws at her, clutching her throat with invisible hands, and the inside of the carriage, luxurious and beautiful, carved in the most exquisite woods and leathers, feels stifling. She touches her own neck, brings a gloved hand up to the skin and tries to scratch the feeling away, the ghosts of a thousand bruises dancing under her hands.

When she arrives at the palace, it’s to the news that the girl has lost the baby, and that feverish delirium is bound to take her to its side before long. Regina isn’t surprised, and yet she clutches instinctively at her own stomach and chest, face contrite until she’s laughing, hysteria tangling with the sound. A womb and a heart, broken and useless both, lacking aplomb and solutions, worthless before the tragedy, and why Regina should ever think to clutch at them escapes her. How absurd, how inadequate, how terribly maddening, how foolishly naïve, and perhaps she’s succumbing to lunacy after all.

Father exhorts her to go see the girl, and Regina denies him, throwing herself into magic instead. She has gone through books and spells before, but she dives into them this time, her library brewing with smoke of every color and sickening smells as her hands, deft and quick, swirl and peel, cut and mix, her mind busying itself with measures so she doesn’t have to think beyond them. The girl asks for her, and Regina sends her potions instead. It’s useless, and she knows this, healing magic always failing when death looms close, imposing and demanding what it is owed, and yet Regina tries, unwilling to surrender in this with as much stubborn determination as she possesses. Skill and time allow her to brew the same exact potion she once bought from Rumpelstiltskin in a maddened effort to save Snow White from the black death, but the physician informs her that the bright blue liquid does nothing but make the girl sick, so that even the scent of light soup has her groaning in disgust. Such news makes Regina stop days of troubling yet floundering pursuit, the pit of her stomach clenching painfully at thoughts of her pixie Little Ace, who’d once mocked the huntsman because–

“… he’s the kind of person that eats without joy and only because he must; can you imagine? How sad life must be when you can’t even delight yourself with pepper and nutmeg and mustard, and oh, anise and saffron and…”

Regina crumbles, her knees failing her and making her tumble to the floor, her spirit following behind. A sob claws at her throat but she denies it, preferring the tight pain of it than the sound of pitying cries. Regina had first called her _the girl_ and as such she should have stayed, the liberties Regina had afforded her prohibited and her wandering lovingness kept at bay. After all, Regina had known the girl was doomed to this from the moment she had set foot inside the palace, and it is only her own naiveté that is to blame for the careless attachment she has developed. Mother had told her that she was the one hindering her own happiness, and she must have been right, for surely Regina has learnt her lesson by now, knows that love is weakness, bound to turn her into a trembling mass kneeling on the floor and clutching uselessly at the linens of her bed, grieving that which was condemned, forgetting victories and short-lived joys in favor of gloom.

Regina should have denied the girl, and yet, eyes as dark as her own had conquered her with ease, had teased impossible thoughts of a future that Regina knows for a fact isn’t to be her own. And if she’d dreamed of a baby born with olive skin and dark curls to pamper and run after, of a cousin made sister who didn’t have judgment in her eyes, of father relearning his old smiles while running after a small child with old knees but boundless joy, of a family to coddle her when the kingdom refused her kindness, then it’s Regina’s own sin for allowing herself fantasies once again, when she knows the real world to be a place of harshness and disgrace. And yet, how she lets her sobs escape at last, for missing the past is most terrible, but missing that which has never been is nothing if not a tragedy for the insane.

 

* * *

 

On the eve of the Summer Festival, this year organized by her council without supervision and with very little care, Rumpelstiltskin pays her a visit in her bedchambers, the thrum of his magic crawling up her spine with a steady and nearly tangible beat. He finds her combing unruly hair with trembling hands, her latest foray into the villages frustratingly unproductive if mind-numbingly distracting. Snow White is nowhere to be found and yet everywhere in the kingdom at once, if not the princess herself then her legend, whispers brewing war with the brightness of the summer days in ways they failed to do when winter had buried everyone under heavy snows. Regina is but doing as she’s promised, burning her way towards Snow with steady hands and a sneer painted on her face. She knows the kingdom thinks her mad, and yet her hands move with nothing if not calculated destruction, shying away from blood and choosing clean torture instead, or simple death over torturous hours of irritating silence. Which is not to say she hasn’t cut one tongue or two over insulting comments, but then she has always been irascible.

The brimming rebellion and her portentous escapee make for the perfect distraction from the girl still dying within the rooms of the palace, clinging to life with stubborn strength and very little else. Father tells her that there are lucid days, days when the blood clogging her lungs is barely noticeable, but Regina ignores the silent plea hidden in his weary voice, having already chosen to forget her own misstep and let the girl go with graceful acceptance. Mother had denied her roots since the day she’d been born, after all, and Regina had turned her back on them to be allowed entrance into a different world, and it had been silly of her to ask for a second chance through the girl’s words. The girl had painted her world for Regina in wide strokes, and Regina is erasing them with insistent conviction.

When Rumpelstiltskin appears, however, Regina knows his visit regards the girl with certainty born of far too many years of their wrecked friendship. Rumpelstiltskin has a knack for finding her at her lowest, and tonight she takes a moment to hate him with a fiery passion for it, for the secrets of her life he has been privy to. Rumpelstiltskin always _knows,_ and it’s his insight which makes him worlds more dangerous than any other creature Regina may ever encounter.

“I heard you were having yourself a bit of a pout, dearie,” he tells her, standing behind her so that his image reflects on her mirror, irritatingly dooming the calm combing her hair had brought her to run straight into sheer annoyance. He seems unfazed by her glare, busy as he is with his own speech, which he continues with, “I figured to myself: she will do that lovely bellowing of hers in no time, search for her old master and a good deal. Alas, no call; I’m a little hurt.” And he pouts, the idiot imp, the childish gesture only managing to paint transparent menace on his golden features.

“No, Rumpel, no calls, no more deals; you always take more than you give.”

“Well yes, dearie, I am _the Dark One._ ” He adds a flourish, of course, hands going up and twirling with hypnotizing precision, foot thrown forward as if readying himself for a dance. She has the fleeting thought that the girl would have adored his dramatics.

She huffs as she stands up, minding her dress as the heavy fabric rustles around her, the cincher around her waist readjusting and constricting accordingly as she turns around to face the imp, always a smarter choice than keeping one’s back to his traitorous self, even with the cheats of mirrors. They haven’t seen much of each other for a while now, an ugly business with a blind witch driven to madness by dark magic the last they had stood within the same room, and the memory still making her uncomfortable even after long months have passed. Rumpelstiltskin has spoken often of the twisted ways of magic, of how easily it conquers weaker spirits until it possesses them rather than the other way around, and Regina wonders if her violent temperament isn’t aided by a brand of too dark magic escaping her grasp. Magic had given her the gift of control, and lack of it is not a prize that she’s willing to pay.

“Why are you here, Rumpel?”

“Why do I do anything? I’m here to make a deal, of course.” He giggles after his words, and the sound is involuntarily unnatural, as if he can’t stop himself but would choose to do so. It makes her skin crawl.

“Unless it involves Snow White’s throat and my hands around it, I’m not interested, dear,” she replies, rolling her eyes in a futile effort to emphasize the frivolousness of his visit. She knows better than to think that he won’t say what he wants to say, but that has never stopped her before. “Even then, I admit there is a certain thrill to the chase; I would hate to deprive myself of it.”

“Ah yes, mayhem, destruction, all very lovely. Cruelty and murder do suit you so well,” he tells her, vicious little smile curling one side of his mouth. “However I’m more concerned with the other little princess in your life. How is it that you call her again? Little Ac–”

“Don’t,” Regina snaps, moving forward and into his space, and almost immediately regretting it. She doesn’t want him looking too closely, doesn’t want to risk him finding something in her gaze to make her cave to his will.

He giggles again, jarring and far too loud, his hand once again in the air to accompany the rhythm of his words. “Ace of Hearts, Queen of Hearts… Ironically adequate. Now, dearie, where was I? Ah, yes, the poor girl.”

“She’s already dead, there’s nothing to do,” Regina tells him, a well-learned mantra that helps her close her eyes at night and search for sleep where her mind would rather give her reddish nightmares.

“No, I suppose not; not in this world, at least.”

He lets the words linger between them, his smile turned into a smirk when Regina’s eyes snap up unintentionally to meet his gaze. They’re temptation and mystery wrapped up in glamorous theatrics, and Regina knows by now to remain silent and wait, to allow the lull in the conversation to settle for long enough that Rumpelstiltskin’s needs for tense anticipation will be satisfied. His proposal will come next, and he is ever so good at that part of the game; Regina’s interest is already piqued despite her best efforts to remain unaffected.

He moves before he speaks, twirling on feet as light as a dancer’s and with such brisk fluidity that he’s standing behind Regina before she has even registered the first whirl of his hand. His fingers hover close to her then, at her shoulders, as if he wants to rest his palm there but knows that Regina will deny him the contact. Regina refuses to look back and give him the luxury of spying her apprehension, the way his presence and that of his magic raises the hairs at the back of her neck.

“Think of a new world, Regina, think of a place where your pretty cousin will live a long and healthy life,” he says, and his words are whispers, secret temptations written as seduction, twisted in a snake-like hiss. He moves so his words now flow from a different side, confusion as important to his ploy as the simple lure of his speech. “Think of a world where Snow White suffers within your grasp.” A giggle, and suddenly his hand settles, not at her shoulder but at her waist, his fingers tightening his hold when she intends to turn around.

“Rumpel–”

“A world made for you, Your Majesty; made _by_ you.”

Regina does turn at that, the movement sharp and jerky so his grip loosens and his hand falls back down at his side. They’re standing far too close, and even if her heels make her taller than him by at least an inch, he looms above her, imposing with his thin frame and his scaly skin, a monster showing his claws and digging them in where they most hurt. _For her, by her,_ and she has no idea what he means but the promise tastes sweet on her lips. Isn’t that what she has always wanted after all, to rule over a world that is her own, where the laws are hers to make, where she doesn’t have to hide under masks or titles, where everyone bows and acquiesces and doesn’t rebel, where Snow White lies dead at her feet? Such thing can’t be possible however, and if it is, then surely the price is more than Regina can afford.

Her throat feels parched, and yet her voice is steady when she speaks next, trying to find her ground with a sneer when she says, “Have you been drinking?” He does so hate being mocked when he’s in the process of a particularly inspired exposition, after all.

She expects his familiar anger, the one that pushes him up and close to her, that shapes his fingers into gnarly claws and crooks his eyes with imperiousness. He snaps his fingers instead, the curious tilt to his head betraying smugness when a box appears on Regina’s table, purple smoke briefly clouding the air around it. Regina gasps, the magic that condenses in the air once the box is settled unexpected and strong, burdening her shoulders with its sheer dominance. Rumpelstiltskin’s magic has always been dangerously intoxicating, but the feeling that grips her stomach and crawls up to her chest is indescribably stronger, an invisible creature of long nails scratching its way up her body, painful yet shy of pleasurable. She doesn’t feel herself move, and yet she suddenly finds herself standing by her table, her hand hovering over the unopened box and whatever it is that lingers within it, the magic a seductive temptress, calling to her own until it rushes over her shoulders and down her arms, exploding in small clouds of purple around her fingers. She’s breathless, her heart punching against her ribcage as if wanting to be freed, and she feels hollowed out, carelessly and rapidly being emptied and then taken over.

“The Dark Curse, dearie,” Rumpelstiltskin says, standing next to her but sounding far away, as if they’re both swimming underwater and the current is rushing against her ears, deafening her to sounds other than the palpitation of her heart, or the scratch of her nails as her hand settles over the lid of the box.

It’s calling to her, this Dark Curse that Rumpelstiltskin has brought before her, stealing her breath away and drying her mouth with as much ease as it is robbing her of her will. Whatever lies within its text is nothing but the darkest of magic, or perhaps darkness itself, dense and syrupy, tasting like bile. It wants her, and it frightens Regina how much she wants it back. A second gasp and Rumpelstiltskin must read her intentions of running as far away from this curse as possible, for he grabs at her, one hand curled around her cheeks with preternatural strength enough to make her pause. His fingers ground her, and yet they’re not enough, the lure of the magic loosening her limbs with sensual precision, making her slouch closer to the imp, forcing her eyes to close at half mast, wanton. Their magic touches then, pervasive and palpable between them, shining purple, black and gold in smoke that Regina inhales until she can taste it, apples and candy and blood at the back of her throat. Rumpelstiltskin smiles and she thinks he’s going to kiss her – for a moment, she wants him to.

Desire punches her gut, gripping her with tenacity powerful enough to wake her from the sudden frenzied ardor caused by the magic floating about her. She fights Rumpelstiltskin’s grip, pushing at him ineffectually for a moment before she manages to free herself, and stumbles backwards, still drunk with the feeling as she wobbles away from the room and towards her balcony. She only stops when the railing is pressing against her stomach, pausing her impetus and forcing her to take big gulps of air, her senses clearing slowly as soft summer breeze hits the clammy skin of her heaving chest and the back of her neck. She grabs at her own hair with desperate fingers, pushing it upwards and holding it up against her skull so the illusion of coolness touches her skin, and at the same time closes her eyes and aims her face upward, looking for sunrays to break through the spell. She can still hear it, calling to her from the inside of the room, echoes of a hissing voice trying to pull her under.

“You want me to cast that,” she whispers, her voice breathless and nearly gone, rough as if she’s been running for hours.

Rumpelstiltskin, already next to her and leaning against the railing with a casualty that denies being affected by the power of the curse, shrugs one shoulder, feigned non-chalance when he says, “It will get you want you want, dearie.”

Regina has no doubts about that. That kind of power… but then, how can she possibly pay the price that such darkness will require of her? She may be the Evil Queen, but she’s not yet that desperate. She shakes her head vehemently, denying Rumpelstiltskin’s silent petition and then dropping her hair back down again, more settled now that she’s put some distance between herself and temptation. It falls in loose curls around her, hiding her face from her former master, and she uses the reprieve to breathe long and deep through her nose, thankful for something as uncomplicated as air through her lungs.

Rumpelstiltskin doesn’t allow her more than a feeble few seconds, however, pushing her hair away from her face and behind her ear and then resting both his hands against her cheeks, scaly knuckles pressing a caress there that could so easily become a strike. It feels like mother’s special brand of calculated affection, and yet Regina, still reeling from the call of darkness, leans into the cold and sandpapery touch, a sigh parting her lips unwittingly.

“That curse is in your destiny, Regina,” he murmurs, low and intimate in the small space between them, his words suggestion and command both.

Regina gives into the alluring nature of them for moment, her will yielding under the inevitably of a word such as _destiny_ , but as soon as her shoulders sag, as if giving up under the burden of a decision already made for her, she bristles. She pushes away from the imp once more, determination in the steps she takes to separate herself from him, disgust at the nature of a touch that she’d bended into not seconds before.

“Destiny?” She sneers. “No, Rumpel; this is just more of your games and your tricks. It’s you pulling the strings and manipulating the world to your desires and your will, it’s – it’s mirrors to another land and fake princes and a thousand deals proving fruitful in the end. You _want_ me to cast that curse, imp.”

“It’s yours to cast; do it, don’t do it. It’s your choice.”

“I won’t,” she snaps, adamant in her fury, further incensed by his dismissive indifference, by how easy it is for him to pretend that there’s nothing at stake when it so obviously is.

A curse so dark that it needs a powerful magic practitioner mad enough to give into its pull, desperate and dangerous and frazzled that any price will feel small and unimportant against the victory that it might offer. A Dark Curse for an Evil Queen; and this is what Rumpelstiltskin has always wanted from her, is it not? This curse is his long game, the fate he designed for her when he first offered power and freedom, the path he set before her and that she walked down so willingly, blind to his intentions, reckless in her search for control within a life that she never chose for herself. And she wonders how much he has maneuvered and handled, how many casualties have been nothing but the product of his influence. Then, she thinks of a little girl dying not three chambers away from her own, a girl put on her path and at the brink of death, a girl part of a family that she had lost even before she’d been allowed to be a part of it, a girl that by all means should have found her death in her journey towards her palace, weakened by her own sickness and doomed to get lost in the confines of the Infinite Forest. A girl for Regina to save, and on the other side of the coin, a princess for Regina to kill, and enough frenzied impulsiveness in her to think that enough to drown herself in the darkness.

“The girl, you sent her to me,” she states.

He smiles, wickedly amused. “I may have unselfishly pointed her in the right direction once or twice.” He jumps, stepping away from the railing and once again closer to Regina, demeanor playful when he points a finger at her, a show of a scolding parent. “One doesn’t turn family away, after all.”

She scoffs, pushing his finger away from her face and sneers as she says, “Very nice, dear, did mother teach you that one before she abandoned you? Or was it after?”

“Don’t be upset over nothing, de–”

“What else, imp?” She interrupts, twirling away from him and throwing her own hands up, twining them inside her tresses lest she feels tempted to start a magical fight that she can’t possibly win. “Leopold’s guards finding me in the forest, surely; what about the Summer Festival, and every other attempt against my life? Are you behind those? And oh, dear Snow White rushing towards death atop her horse right before my eyes? Just how much of my life has been a game to bring me here?”

He giggles before her accusations, as if she’s the funniest thing he has ever seen, as if a lifetime of tricks is nothing to him, dark and eternal where the rest of them are nothing but vessels for his desires. She snarls and that only turns his giggle into a full peal of laughter, the sound treacherous and breaking goose bumps on her skin. When he approaches, she doesn’t fight him, her limbs loose when he pulls her into a dancing frame, one hand firm against her back and the other clutching at her fingers painfully, surely bruising them by pressing her knuckles together. He moves forward into a fast-paced waltz, and Regina follows for a moment, dumfounded enough that they’ve danced twice across the balcony before she disengages herself, using a fancy twirl to drive herself away from his figure.

“Haven’t we been dancing together for too long for you to be mad now?” He questions her, his eyes shining with mirth. “You’ve always known who I am and what I’ve done, and yet you have stayed like a good little pet.”

“You _dare–_ ”

“I _do_ ,” he snaps. “Haven’t you gained as much as you’ve lost, Regina? Cast that curse and all you desire will be yours.”

“At what cost?”

“One that you will pay, eventually,” he answers, a smirk now between his lips, so self-assured and patronizing that Regina can do nothing but turn, clutch at the railing once again to hold herself upright.

“I will not, dear,” she replies, thankful that her tone is steady and brokers no argument, that her hands are nimble even if turning white with the pressure she’s affecting on the railing. “No more games, Rumpelstiltskin. I will not cast your curse, but I will end you for everything you have put me through.”

“Death threats? Trembling in my boots, dearie.”

Regina laughs at his mockery, turning around with a smirk on her lips and shoulders thrown backwards, the stance of a queen on the prowl. Yes, they have been dancing together for too many years now, and it is about time that they go to war instead. “I didn’t say a thing about death, dear,” she replies, approaching him this time after spending their time together stepping away instead. “Mother taught me better than that.” Then, with a bitter laugh, “So did you for that matter.”

“Did we now?”

Regina’s lips paint themselves into a smug grin as she leans closer to him, face and chest forward so that she can breathe into his face, focus her gaze on his eyes. Seductress and executioner both, she declares, “I am going to destroy you.”

He matches her smirk with one of his own, and Regina realizes she wouldn’t have it any other way. It will only be all the more satisfying once she strips him of his power and makes him crawl on his knees and beg for her mercy.

“And the girl?” He questions, a funny little shake of his head and his hands waving about. “Little Ace of Hearts,” he singsongs, every syllable the note of a sad song.

Regina turns her eyes away from him then, moves her hands so they’re tangled and resting closer to her own heart. Little Ace of Hearts, brought to her by his mangling hands, little fae of a family long lost, with eyes like Regina’s and charm so stubborn that it’s broken Regina’s walls. And yet. And yet she’s not a good enough gain for whatever price she would have to pay.

“She’s already dead,” she states.

Rumpelstiltskin laughs behind her, and when he approaches and presses both hands to her arms, loosely holding her as he whispers, Regina bristles once again, wanting to shy away from his touch while not wanting to give him another glimpse at the effect he has on her.

His face comes closer to hers, hot puffs of breath touching the skin of her ear when he whispers, “Chilling, dearie. Mommy would be proud.”

Regina turns around with immediacy, hand thrown forward violently only to be met by purple smoke, Rumpelstiltskin disappearing as abruptly as he’d appeared, his laughter lingering behind him and echoing around Regina for a few moments. It’s not the only thing that he’s left her with, however, for the curse remains, hidden within its box and humming curling promises to Regina’s attentive ears, waiting for her to bend to its will and give it life. She bites her lip, pressing the small of her back against the railing and closing her eyes, fighting the influence. It rips into her however, tendrils that feels like claws and dig into her ribcage, promising a time of reckoning, a moment for a decision to be made. The moment is not this night, however, not this night where her cousin dies and Snow White lives, and where Regina’s madness is not yet so thoughtless. She twirls her hand in the air and casts the box and the curse inside it away, conjures it inside her vault, to be surrounded by precious beating hearts, where it can palpitate between them, and wait.

 

* * *

 

The girl dies quietly and unceremoniously, heaving her last breath in the middle of the night and spreading relief through a palace that has seen her clinging to life purposelessly for far too long. Father tells her that she died with a last request to see her, and the bitterness in his tone shakes Regina to the core, makes her feel inadequate inside her own skin. She tells herself, adamantly, that her coldness and defeat wouldn’t have brought the girl any comfort, and repeats the thought until she believes it to be true.

They bury her under a light spattering of rain, which Regina supposes is fair, if not for the sun of summer, which comes out as soon as the clouds disappear with even more obnoxious brilliance than before the drizzle. The service is short and to the point, and Regina stands with her head hanging low and clad in a heavy yet simple black gown, a hat with thin and translucent fabric that covers half her face hiding away eyes that refuse to cry. She figures that she has already shed whatever tears the girl deserved, and dwelling on the subject of an inevitable destiny makes her feel ill. She feels itchy, as a matter of fact, the fabric of her gown too thick for the light weather, and her hands nervous as they straighten her skirt or pick at her fingerless gloves. She can’t wait to escape and do something other than stand forlornly in mourning of the nuisance that was the girl, perhaps burn something or kill someone, yell for no reason at all or ride until her muscles can’t hold her up anymore. She hates the feeling, and blames her anxiousness on the unpleasant way her eyes insist on prickling, and on the boring tone of the speech being uttered in the girl’s name. She would have hated the passionless voice trying to honor her, and Regina wants to laugh hysterically at the thought.

The service finally over, Regina runs back towards her bedchambers, all thought of ladylike elegance forgotten as she does her best to avoid father and the uncharacteristic rage she knows he’s harboring against her. It only makes her own anger ignite, the thought of him daring to be furious at her in the late name of the girl – there was never any anger for her, after all, not when mother’s fingers were shaping bruises on her skin, when long days and nights were spent within the oppressive humidity of a dark cellar, when she was being walked to a minor death in the arms of her future husband, and Regina fears herself capable of hurting daddy in the throes of her own thin-skinned fickleness.

By the time her guards close the doors behind her she’s already pulling at the strings tying her corset together, wanting to tug herself free from the damp fabric weighting her down. She’s distracted enough that she’s startled by the hunched figure of the huntsman, uncharacteristically sitting at the edge of her bed rather than at her table. She stares at him dumbly, finding it impossible to remember at which point she’d ordered him brought to her chambers, and with which particular purpose. The table is set for two, however, so she must have wanted him here at some point or other. She looks between him and the table, indecisive, hating the steaming dishes presented before her even when she hasn’t eaten properly in days, her stomach queasy at the mere thought. The air smells sickly sweet around the table, and she realizes that the offered dessert is one of the girl’s favorite sweets, a warm concoction of corn, apples and _membrillo_ that she’d once prepared herself before writing down a recipe for the Head Cook. Regina hadn’t been a big fan, finding it entirely too pasty and sugary, and she remembers the huntsman valiantly nibbling at it with a forced smile on his face, because of course he’s the kind of person to eat something he finds disgusting just to please a friend. Regina groans at the unwanted memory, making up her mind immediately.

“Get out,” she orders, easily ignoring her guest while she walks towards her mirror, her hands tugging at her headdress.

She removes the hat with deft fingers, and the reflection looking back at her is that of a perfectly made up face, dark kohl around her eyes and red paint on plump lips. It’s artlessly flawless, and for some reason it strikes her as fake, a mask that she doesn’t wish to wear. She looks away, and in doing so, finds the huntsman’s figure once more, elbows against his knees, head lowered and face hidden away, no sign of movement in his demeanor.

“Have you gone deaf?” Annoyance laces her tone, today of all days one in which she wishes all her orders easily complied with; she honestly has no strength to put up with the aloof despondency of her prisoner.

His lithe shoulders move under his thin shirt like a puzzle, and then he’s looking up and straight at her, something wildly desperate hidden in the depths of his eyes. It’s absurd to think of his emotions when he’s nothing but a collection of memories and echoes inside a hollowed out chest, and yet his eyes hold hers with furious despair, begging silently for something that Regina doesn’t understand. It makes her breath hitch, and she wonders how it is that the faceless imitation of a man that she has turned him into can look at her with such blunt candidness, pushing at her masks until she’s the one revealing her true face. His eyes are uncomfortably invasive, filled with impossible sentiment, and it forces her to avert her gaze abruptly. He’s no one, he’s nothing, barely more than a toy for her to play with when she’s bored, and he has no right to stare at her like that.

However, as if cued by her refusal to stay locked within his gaze, he moves fast as lighting, propelling his body forward until he crashes against her, her surprised gasp swallowed when he pushes her against the table, her ass landing half on top of it and her hands shooting backwards, dishes falling to the floor and crashing loudly. Scents mix unpleasantly when the food spreads on the marble floors, sweet and sour wafting up her nose and only adding to the confusing abruptness of the moment. Dazed momentarily, the cool sharpness of a blade against her throat makes her gasp. The huntsman is holding an innocuous table knife against her throat, surely edged enough to hurt but not to kill, but his weight as he holds her against the table is threateningly distracting, his body entirely too warm above hers and the rapid rise and fall of his chest confounding.

“ _What_ are you doing?” She demands, beastly snarl uncomely on her lips.

His eyes remain wild and agitated, and when Regina moves a hand jerkily away from the table and towards his face he traps it with a strong grip, leaving them in a physical struggle that she can’t possibly win, the blade digging painfully enough against the skin of her neck that she has trouble swallowing. She laughs, nonetheless, sandpaper-like bitterness tangled in the sound, wry amusement at the huntsman finally putting up the fight that she has been taunting out of him for years now. Their skirmish continues but for a moment, Regina soon tiring herself of the futility of the attack and pressing a burst of painful magic against the hand holding the knife, content to let it go only when she hears the bones of his wrist crack. He hisses and the knife escapes his fingers, cluttering away when the floor stops its fall. It’s not enough to deter him, however, his hand going back for her neck and resting around it, loose enough that it’s only shy of painful, a menace that he doesn’t seem willing to go through with. His face is as close to hers as it’s ever been, his breathing uncomfortably hot against her cheeks and lips, and never before has he seemed so human, violence shining in his eyes.

“What?” Regina demands once again, acutely aware of his body between her legs, of the sweat on his fingers where they’re still holding her wrist, of the sudden temptation of lips thinned into an ugly grimace.

He swallows, and she watches with rapt attention as his throat bobs, the skin stretched with tension. He licks his lips and his expression softens, his eyes turning into a puppy-like turndown that steals the danger away from his face. His voice is but a whisper, raspy when he says, “I can’t even mourn her. She was – she was… _special,_ and I feel nothing.”

“Aww, are you angry because you can’t cry?”

He growls, and suddenly all those stupid tales the maids like to tell about him and his being raised by wolves don’t seem all that inaccurate. He pulls from her wrist as if to shake her, and the uselessness of the aggression makes her laugh, something broken and cruel.

“You’re a monster,” he intones.

She shrugs at the jibe, always preferring for him to see the monster than the cracks hiding beneath it, and then frees her wrist from his grip with an insistent yank. That she manages it without much effort is but proof of his unwillingness to hurt her despite what his countenance might suggest, and so it is with a smirk that she reaches for his chest, the pads of her fingers stroking softly at the place where his heart doesn’t beat. Warmth seeps from his skin to hers even with his shirt between them, but the feeling of it is short-lived, the huntsman snatching her hand away with renewed strength before he launches forward, a snarling beast for a too brief moment before he presses unforeseen lips to her own, dry and harsh, his teeth skimming the skin of her mouth without daring to bite.

She breaks away from it, demanding, “If you want to do this, then do it like you mean it or don’t do it at all.”

He growls his answer before he latches onto her lips, and then he gives her everything she wants and more, teeth, lips and tongue brutal against her own, her skin singing under the abuse. He kisses like a wild beast, imprecise but riveted, and Regina returns the favor with equal fervor, sinking into the moment and allowing his flesh to steal her thoughts away. She perches herself more comfortably on the table, her back straighter so her chest is pressed tight against his, their unmatched breaths forcing them even closer. Her chest heaves without rhythm, his skin so very warm even through layers of clothing that she feels as if her breasts want to escape the confines of her corset, spill forward until they’re pressed against his skin. There’s no time, though, not when she finds herself fumbling with the laces of his breeches , the movement inordinately clumsy as he returns the favor by digging his arms under her layered and heavy skirts, desperately searching for skin.

His teeth find her neck at the same time his nails find her thighs, and the combined feeling rips a moan out of her throat, her head thrown back and her eyes opening unexpectedly wide when pleasure spikes up her spine, the surprise of his ferocity as exciting as his touches alone. She parts her legs wider for him, cradling him in and panting when she finally gets a good grip on his cock, hard and slick on her hand. She laughs, mocking his arousal even as she finds herself matching it whimper by whimper, the harsh loudness of their combined breathing surprisingly enticing.

She’s still too dry when he finds his way inside her, but Regina welcomes the rawness of the intrusion and how it turns her into a creature of physical feeling alone, thoughts and emotions flying out the window as she turns into nothing but a woman with no desire to come up for air. She finds his mouth again and pulls him against her, her fingers claw-like at the back of his neck and crawling up between soft strands of curly hair, her legs tightening about his waist and the heel of her boot finding the globe of his ass, encouraging him into his discordant and hard thrusts. He tightens his own grip with equal fervor, his nails digging deep on the flesh he finds, marking her hips and her ass, raking down her thighs and eliciting sighs of pleasure to be swallowed immediately by his eager tongue.

Another plate falls and crashes on the floor, but the noise barely registers, the feel of him smooth now that she’s wet around him and that the scent of sex and their mingled sweat invades her nostrils, pushing every other sensation to the back of her head. It’s a bumbling effort on their part nonetheless, the unexpected thrill of it adding to their fire and building it towards bliss in a jerky struggle towards satisfaction. It happens, however, with startling force and delicious suddenness, arching her spine involuntarily and stealing a gasping moan away from her parted lips. He follows with near immediacy, and she can’t help but laugh after their mutual moment of euphoria.

She drops back against the table, resting her weight on her elbows and panting harshly, her eyes unfocused even as she tries to come back from the high. He remains inside her as he recovers, his hands now splayed on her thighs rather than digging moon-shaped dents into her flesh. She hopes he’s left bruises behind, even as his looming weight is beginning to feel stifling, the enticing warmth of his skin more uncomfortable by the second. He doesn’t move, however, so she’s the one to push at him until he’s stumbling backwards, the feeling of him sliding out making her flinch. He fumbles with his clothes as soon as he steps back and away, a fleeting grimace of disgust crossing his features now that the heat is gone. She rolls her eyes at his predicatively, and so remains just where she is hoping to make him uncomfortable, her legs parted and her skirts rustled around her waist.

“I suppose you are good for something, after all,” she drawls, the curl of her lips amused mockery.

He turns her way with his lips parted, as if unwilling to say what’s on his mind. He’s too kind to admit to his distaste, she muses, and far too gentle to enjoy their encounter for exactly what it was, nothing but a discordant moment of hatred turned into lust. He’d wanted to feel something and she’d hoped to stop feeling everything, but he’s the kind of man that will fuck the Evil Queen and tell himself that he’s making love to the woman behind the moniker. The thought makes her huffy, and she stands up on shaky legs, covering herself up primly even as he keeps staring at her, dumbfounded and with his palm pressed against his chest, rubbing at the skin there as if he can coax lost feelings by sheer determination. His expression, wild and attractive moments before, now feels silly to her, so she turns away and towards her vanity, already thinking of a clean face and a warm bath.

“It’s so like a man, you know,” she declares when she feels his eyes still settled upon her, as if waiting for a proclamation of feelings that she doesn’t have.

“What is?”

“To search for your heart inside a wet cunt.”

The crassness doesn’t deter him, and his eyes remain on her unwaveringly, so that Regina turns to find his gaze once again. He’s searching for something in her, and Regina hates that he won’t find it, and that he will dare to declare her lacking.

Finally, he asks, “Did you ever even love her?”

And Regina, inside her chambers that smell of spilled food, before the prisoner that she’s just allowed between her thighs, with hair tousled and lipstick smeared, disjointed chaos where she has pretended to be precise destruction, looks down and away, and whispers, “No, I suppose I did not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (A) From "The Ladies’ Book of Etiquette, and Manual of Politeness" by Florence Hartley
> 
> (B) From "The Story of Griselda" by Charles Perrault  
> \--
> 
> (1) Cielo, are you trying to win a race?
> 
> (2) Little Ace
> 
> (3) Little Ace has prepared a special meal for you


	8. Part VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW1: Implied eating disorder.
> 
> TW2: Mentions of past marital rape and past emotional abuse.
> 
> TW3: Mentions of past miscarriage. Mentions the canon events of "Mother" (4x20), where Regina takes a potion to make herself barren.
> 
> TW4: The farther this goes the more it deals with Regina's Evil Queen tendencies, so canon compliant type of violence and abuse; a little more violent than canon, actually.
> 
> TW5: While I've defined the Hunstman/Regina relationship as consensual up to this point, it does deal with obvious power imbalance and emotional abuse.
> 
> \---
> 
> Translations at the end, as always.
> 
> AN1: The events happening here are canon compliant to the best of my abilities, but I've stretched the timing a little bit, mostly because while OUaT likes its romances to fall under a "Hey, I just met you and this is crazy, I will always find you, True Love maybe?" type of thing, I like to pretend that Snow and Charming spent more than an afternoon together before defying kings and queens for their love.
> 
> AN2: While I've watched season 5 (because I'm a masochist, obviously) I won't be adding whatever convoluted plotting has become canon during it in this.
> 
> AN3: Also, I've gone back to Tumblr after veeery long time away, and I'm not all that active yet, but I'm amor-y-chocolate if you guys want to find me.

 

The first winds of autumn bring with them heavy rains and cloudy skies, the scents of fresh fallen leaves, acorns and pumpkin pie, as well as the sight of ripe and shiny apples ready to be harvested. Accordingly, the first early afternoon that affords them grey yet rainless skies, Regina finds herself perched on a stool and picking apples, a task that she had taken upon herself the moment the tree had been transplanted to the palace, and which Leopold’s court had eventually decided was quirkily charming, if only for how much Snow had enjoyed lending a helping hand. There is no help this time around, but the people that remain at her palace gather about her nonetheless, her council and her guards already used both to the sight and to Regina’s extravagant inclination of caring for the tree. Autumn months are apple months; everyone in the palace knows. Just as well, everyone knows that the apple tree has the talent of gifting Regina with a sigh of patience and tranquility that has been glaringly missing from her temperament as of late, and so they seem to receive the respite of the season with thankful contentment.

The sun begins to wane and Regina finds herself sitting on the ground and forcing her companions for the day to do the same. Father is more than happy to comply, the pain of his ever-weakening knees easy to forget when Regina’s wishes are of such innocence and so easy to fulfill – she does wonder, as he holds her hand between his own and over his lap, if he can spy something of the younger girl she’d been back at the manor in these moments. Her council members aren’t quite as content with the arrangement, but they know better than to question her, particularly when she finds herself in a serene mood. Truth be told, the past handful of weeks haven’t seen her demeanor anywhere near sedate or amicable, her countenance despondent yet vicious instead, and anyone a possible victim to her indiscriminate malice. Proof enough of such behavior is poor Rivers, whose clumsy attempt at flattery while staring down Regina’s cleavage had afforded him the newly appointed position of Mirror Bearer, and has seen him carrying an impossibly ornate and weighty mirror around for weeks now, shadowing Regina with the zeal of a man fearing for his life. Even now, he hasn’t been given the privilege of sitting down, and continues to struggle under the burden of the object, despite Regina having no wishes of speaking to the genie trapped within it.

The newest gardener had fallen victim to her wrath just as well, good old Fritz having died not too long after Regina’s little cousin, following the trail of death the girl had seemingly set them upon, and his substitute finding an early death barely a month later. The man had proven his incompetence by filling the gardens with juniper flowers, which had sent not just Regina, but also Duchess Adela and the Treasury Master, into an allergic fit so heavy that their council meetings had been an exercise in futility for weeks, runny noses and cottoned heads as undignified as they had been exhausting. Her Royal Doctor had accompanied the gardener in his fate when he’d insisted that Regina’s malice was merely a sign of her being _moonstruck_ , a kind way of calling her raving mad if Regina had ever heard one. That he’d followed his statement with wild theories of evil spirits and lectures on the punishment of sins and tests of faith and character had been enough to afford him a twisted neck, the heavy thump of his lifeless body as it hit the floor a sound that Regina is already far more than used to; life comes so cheap these days, after all.

It must be such displays of snappish irritation that have her Military Advisor trying to change her mind on the subject of her open doors policy on the palace, a discussion that he’s been trying to draw her into for days now and that Regina has adamantly closed with little more than a couple of harsh words and a frustrated groan.

Regina, for all the acts of evilness she’s become infamous for, has always had an open door policy towards commoners who need a night under a roof and food in their bellies, and has offered such courtesy to those who dare make their way towards her palace, a spark of benevolence that had cost her attempts against her life as well as petty thefts in the past, but that Regina had insisted on holding nonetheless. She’s never wanted her kingdom to starve under her rule, has never wanted to give people reason to deem her senselessly ruthless, has always hoped to make them understand that if they’re ever victims to her wrath then it is their loyalty towards Snow White what inflames her, and not capricious despotism. Her efforts have garnered her no peace from hatred or abuse, however, and Regina has no desire to give while getting nothing in return anymore. Thus, her palace has been closed to uninvited guests, and the overreaching horror of her rule furthered by tongues quick to speak ill of her. Duke Nicholas is of the opinion that she’s being childishly stubborn on the matter, a thought that Regina has simply chosen to dismiss.

“Now do be a dear and speak of matters that are, in fact, your business; what news come from the southeast borders?”

Her Military Advisor doesn’t push the subject, but rather chooses to drone on and on about the tumultuous rebellion raging inside her borders, which neither grows nor diminishes, and which while controlled, keeps bringing her a steady stream of dead knights frustrating enough for Regina’s anger to boil over with now familiar ease. It fails to gather much of her attention this particular afternoon, however, her interests far more enraptured by the shiny skin of the picked apples. As she pushes the words being spoken to her to the back of her mind, she busies herself with selecting the most delicious looking apple, ready to enjoy the juicy treat with elation. She’s lost desire and taste for food lately, and as she wraps nimble fingers about a piece of fruit, she feels suddenly weightless. She would welcome the feeling, considering she has been waddling her way through her days with heavy steps and tired limbs, her frame cumbersome by virtue of lack of sleep and meager meals, and yet the acute airiness isn’t pleasant in the least.  It’s not a sensation of light allowance, but rather that of groundlessness and transparency, that of being consumed away by bitter apathy. Momentarily, she pictures herself as one of those old witches of folk tales, a too thin frame sagging under a hump, frail bones for legs and brittle, long-fingered hands moving like spiders. A shiver runs down her back, uncomfortable, and so it is with gusto that she bites into her apple.

Regina’s teeth sink into the fruit, and the next second she’s throwing it to the ground, her hiss of disgust only stopped by a loud coughing fit. She gags, and her reaction causes a stir about her, the council members looking at her with sudden and wide-eyed curiosity, her guards reacting as if imminent threat had broken about them, hands reaching for the hilt of their words, and father tightening his hold on her hand with surprising strength. A scowl mars Regina’s features even as she’s spitting the bite out of her mouth, and she glares at the offending piece of fruit, browning flesh hiding behind the shape of her teeth.

“It’s rotten,” she spits.

And indeed it is, the sight alone enough for bile to rise up Regina’s throat, threatening to make her sick. She dry-heaves, disgust settling tight against her breastbone and her tongue still tasting the revoltingly spongy flesh that she had expected juicy and crisp. Jerkiness present in her movements, she snatches a second apple and opens it in half with a snap of magic, only to discover a brown heart and flesh infested by a slowly moving worm.  A sickened cry follows her dropping of the apple to the ground, her queasiness only growing when subsequent pieces of fruit reveal the same conditions, the whole batch seemingly spoiled. Staring at the damage, Regina wonders if she’s not looking straight into an omen of morbid calamity. Perhaps, she muses, there’s nothing left in this palace of hers that doesn’t reek of death.

Her movements are cumbersome and clumsy as she stands up, but she gathers her skirts up with swift efficiency once she’s straightened herself up just to allow her steps to move faster as she runs towards her chambers. Noise follows her; the Military Advisor and Duchess Adela calling after her, Rivers clumsily running after her as well as the rest of her guards, but she ignores them all and closes her door right against their faces, desperately wishing for intimacy. Once inside her chambers and alone, she realizes that she’s breathing heavily, jagged pants leaving parted lips and widening her nostrils, the taste of something putrid plastered to the roof of her mouth. Warm disgust crawls from her stomach all the way up to her throat, and she barely has time to reach her washbasin before she’s vomiting, yellow bile staining her lips as tears begin pushing at the corners of her eyes.

Regina loses track of time as she breathes heavily, arms braced over the washbasin and eyes closed, her chest heaving wildly even as she tries to regain her balance. Her head is swimming, though, her thoughts clouded and her stomach queasy even when she knows there’s nothing else that could possibly come out. Eventually, she drops to the floor, arms about herself, fingers tight against her own forearms, trying to bring back feeling to her limbs, anything that will make her feel rooted to the spot rather than floating away. It’s been a difficult task as of late, her thoughts full of ghosts trapped in cobwebs and refusing to leave, a little cousin lying dead underground and a princess hiding away at corners she can’t reach.

It’s there that father finds her, his presence shaped in warm hands that push a cupful of water towards her lips and that cradle her face, run slowly down locks of hair. She’s far too old to crave such comfort, and yet she does. She gives into it, hiding her face against the fabric of father’s soft-collared shirt, allowing a careful embrace of weakened limbs and the soothing of soft, mindless words spoken against her cheek, over her temple, surrounding her senses in warmth she’s positively sure she hardly deserves. After all, if anyone has been subject to her thin-skinned wrath, it has most certainly been father. And oh, how Regina has belittled him for being such a willing victim, for accepting lackluster apologies over malice bestowed with pernicious scorn. It hasn’t been a fortnight since she had sent him on a trek back to the palace by himself, after all, forcing him through dark and dangerous roads in an hours-long journey; less than a week since she’d rejected an offer of chocolate with harsh words and a reminder that she’s no longer a little girl in need of her father; and just yesterday a kind word spoken towards Snow reason enough to have him banished from her presence by toughened soldiers. How she wishes sometimes he would dare hate her, for then perhaps she would believe the words that deem her evil.

This day she clings to him, though, clings to the one thing she knows and understands, to the warmth of love undeserved yet freely given. Secluded away in a familiar hug, tightness settles upon her breast, signal of the certainty that her apples are but a sign of a world gone mad, and her, the responsible force behind it. For surely it must be her that’s rotten to the core, her that denied a dying girl her last wishes, her that toys and tortures her prisoners with ease and delight, her that persecutes a princess elevated to hero by every soul that should love her by right instead.  

 _And yet_. And yet she refuses to believe such thoughts, to make herself a villain in a story that has seen her used and diminished, that has made a victim out of her and has condemned her for daring to fight back and take control of a life that had never before felt like her own. The kingdom would have her be a slave once more, a dutiful daughter to a mother that knew no other passion than viciousness, a warm and easy wife to a man that chose her with the same indifference he would have chosen a ring among a collection of fine jewelry, a doting mother to a child that stole everything and yet understands nothing; and above all, father would pray for her to be at peace with such ordains. Moreover, her one saving grace, her impish teacher of the dark arts, who had offered power and freedom to hands that had been desperately helpless for so long, would have her be nothing but a servant to his own wishes.

“It’s that dammed _curse!_ ” She exclaims all of a sudden, fury regained between loving arms when father must have meant to inspire comfort.

There’s little comfort to be had, however, with the whispering temptation of the Dark Curse ghosting promises over her senses, making otherwise firm hands tremble with desires she can’t understand. She stands up with sudden urgency, and as soon as she’s on her feet she realizes that she has neither purpose nor destiny, so she ends up pacing mindlessly around her room, energy uncoiling from within and forcing her to find a way to let it go. Anger is an easy outlet, making her pace fast and her steps heavy, the swoosh of her long skirts as they travel behind her and the clack of her heels insufficiently satisfying when she wishes she had an enemy to unload her frustration upon. There’s nothing but father, however, still kneeling on the floor and hugging the air, as if missing the desperate figure Regina had allowed herself to be for a too long moment. She does so despise herself when she allows herself to fall so deeply into her own self-pity, when she fails to vanquish thoughts of haunting ghosts and allows them to claw away at her senses, and she so begrudges father for being both enabler and comfort to her depression.

“ _Cielo,_ what could possib–”

“Hush, daddy; you can’t possibly understand,” she snaps, dismissive now of the man that had made breathing possible only moments before.

Father simmers down, saying no more but remaining next to her. He struggles to sit up and make his way to a chair, and Regina doesn’t even look his way as his old limbs creak and whine as he moves. She offers no help, but instead focuses her pacing with calculated precision, counting her steps until her mind loses its haziness and she feels as if she’s capable of rational thought. Once settled, she turns towards her favorite mirror and snaps her fingers until her genie is reflected in the surface.

“Yes, my queen?” He drawls, annoyance so prevalent that Regina would choose to punish him were his actual imprisonment not penalty enough.

“Show me the Dark Castle.”

The mirror before her ripples, magic pulling softly at the back of her head in a well-known caress. The image that greets her, however, is the same that she has been witness to for the past few months now – thick cloth covering the surface on the other side and nothing but shadows moving behind it, hidden away from Regina’s prying eyes. Regina groans, aggravated by the lack of results, distraught that Rumpelstiltskin can best her with something as innocuous as a piece of fabric placed with strategic precision.

Regina’s quest against Rumpelstiltskin, ignited by his latest offering of the Dark Curse and fueled by years of unjust misuse, has proven to be a source of frustration perhaps as deeply aggravating as that against Snow’s. However, if Regina has proven relentless in her search for the princess, then she is even more so when it comes to her former master, madness twisting her every thought by virtue of the power of the curse, still in her possession and carefully stripping her of her sanity with the enticing caress of dark magic. Regina had hidden the curse away in between the beating hearts of her vault, and after realizing that its pull remained as alluring as it had the moment Rumpelstiltskin had given it to her, she’d cast every protection spell she’d ever learned upon it, both to protect it from the outside and to ward herself against it. Nonetheless, its powers prevail over any magic Regina has within her grasp, and its calling remains pounding and overreaching. It’s not a coincidence, after all, that Regina has received the visit of three different magic practitioners in the span of a few months, all of them with varying degrees of aggression and cunning, and yet with the same purpose in mind; that the blind witch with the half-baked magic and taste for children’s flesh had been the one to get closer to it is only proof of how careless the dark magic itself is making Regina. The Dark Curse wants to be cast, and it seems as if its insistent call will torture her for as long as she keeps it secreted away and useless.

 Puny warlocks and witches are hardly of any concern to Regina, however. For all of his sins, Rumpelstiltskin has created himself an efficient monster, and she doubts there’s anyone in this realm capable of besting her abilities, if not the imp himself. It is the curse itself what worries her, for if others feel the call from faraway lands, then Regina must live with it, a pervasive hum at the back of her neck, distracting her with ease, crying for her with silent laments and reaching for her with invisible claws. It had driven her insane for days at first, and now she barely controls it.

The nights are the hardest, when the palace is silent and everyone is resting, and when all spirits come out to hound her, plaguing her every thought and making her blood thrum with unanswered thirst. Not even after his death had thoughts of Daniel haunted her so, his face distorted in her dreams, his hands reaching for her and her reaching back, and their fingers always lingering in the vast space in between, so close and yet so far apart, doomed lovers of a tale that required their tragedy. Little Ace comes too, accusing at times and understanding at others, painful inadequacy climbing Regina’s spine with dense fingerless hands, twisting until the pain no longer feels like a dreamscape, pressing constricting heat against her head and contorting every image with a string of lost souls – Prince Bernard and Baroness Irene, soldiers dressed in black that had dared to look upon her with gratitude, souls lost in Regina’s war against the world at large. And yet the ghosts remain nothing but that, Regina’s quixotic limbos never more demented than when inhabited by the living – Snow White always a breath away, gathering allies and tearing hopes away from Regina’s hands; the huntsman, his face distorted with distaste at whatever shape of humiliation Regina chooses to bestow upon him; faceless men and women holding fear but also pity, deeming her less, bursting with disapproval. And then, when Regina feels as if the madness might kill her, as if her own sins may drown her breath away and leave her lifeless while laying on her own bed, a burst of light at the end of the tunnel, a vision of a wailing baby and blond curls before a woman’s face pulsating behind her mind’s eye, teasing her with impossible futures and yearning so acute that delirium promises to be more painful still, for surely waking up from such hopes to a bleak world must be enough to disarm her.

The Dark Curse is dark magic in as pure a form as Regina has ever felt, balming in its promises while grueling in its unanswered requests, and it tempts Regina with tendrils that are palliative and punitive both, a careful game of pervasive allure invading her every sense. She has found herself standing before the box hiding it without knowing how she’d gotten there on more than one lonely night, and she has barely managed to fight the attraction. It tugs at her very being, her heart and her body, the magic of it sensuous and hollowing, merging with her own until she feels out of control. It is that, if nothing else, that has kept her from falling into temptation, for as much as her mind sometimes teases at her, insistent that perhaps uncovering the text and understanding the magic will do her no harm, the unrestrained uncoiling of her magic whenever she even comes close to the thought has stopped her with swift and calculated coldness. She has seen people driven mad by magic, and she has no wish to give herself to a wild darkness that will control her, and not the other way around.

Nevertheless, every time Regina has thought about getting rid of the maddening curse altogether, her rejection of the idea has been almost as abruptly determined as her shielding against it. Destroying it is surely impossible, its brand of magic hard to even contain, and giving it to someone else a completely foolish thought, even if one Regina has entertained. There is no one she would bestow such power upon, however, and more to the point, the idea that someone else might hold the curse one that she rebels against with instinctual fury. The curse is _hers,_ its magic intimately personal when it trails its deceptive fingers over her unprepared skin, its whispered promises private. She has no doubt that the Dark Curse was made for her to cast, and so there are no hands that she knows to trust for safekeeping; after all, who would be powerful enough to resist it without losing their senses, and selfless enough to keep it untouched? Such magic bearing such baiting provocation, and Regina knows that if anyone but her would dare cast it, only nightmares would follow.

Rumpelstiltskin must have known, of course, if not that it would drive her to ill-tempered despondency then surely that it would prove tantalizing in its nature. No one understands Regina’s magic better than her teacher, and the imp wants that curse cast for reasons beyond Regina’s comprehension. Whatever the case may be, his foredoomed gift is but one more crime in a list so long that Regina has no wish to even keep score. Thus her insistence on having eyes inside his walls, on discovering secrets that may allow her to fight him with his very own weapons. After all, one can’t hope to defeat the imp if not with knowledge and treacherous tricks.

So far, all Regina has managed is to have a couple of his deals go sour, but Rumpelstiltskin is not short on secondary plans, and such trifle actions have barely brought any satisfaction other than amusing distraction over her frustrating persecution of Snow. Regina wants to hit him where it hurts most, but what could possibly damage such a creature? Regina’s thoughts have even dared wander towards mother, but turning to her feels entirely too much like running to mommy over a complicated situation, and Regina has known better for a very long time now. She remembers with acute fidelity how, eight years old and incapable of issuing orders, she’d gone to mother when her chambermaid had refused to mend a small tear on a dearly loved dressed, claiming it too old and ready to be shredded into rags. Regina had cried to mother, and what she had been offered had been a lesson that neither her nor the maid had forgotten; the old maid had gotten lashed and promptly sent away to harder manual labor at the cornfields north of the state, and Regina had gone foodless for a day, which she had spent shredding her own dress to pieces that she had then been forced to burn.

“Remember you are a lady of this house, Regina,” mother had told her next day, open palmed hand against her cheek as much a caress as it had been a warning. “You must never count on anyone but yourself to have your wishes complied with, my dear.”

The memory is powerful enough to make Regina shudder, the ghost of a child more scared of asking for help than of facing any other task still present in every fiber of her being. It remains difficult to decide whether mother had taught her to be strong, or whether she had simply bestowed upon her the talent of viciousness. Nonetheless, she’s positive that pitting mother against Rumpelstiltskin might be a case of the remedy being worse than the malady, and so Regina had banished the thought as quickly as she’d had it in the first place.

Her own attempts have fallen shy of useless, however, and it had only been but a little over a month ago when she had chosen to pay a visit to the imp at his castle, determined to cast a spell on mirrors that he’d protected from her for as long as she’d showed a particular talent with that aspect of her magic.

“Ah, dearie, whatever happened to _I’m going to destroy you_?” He’d questioned her upon her arrival, the poor imitation of her tone and demeanor enough to cause an involuntary chuckle.

“I don’t see why that might stop us from partaking in cordial business in the meantime. Peasants are so dull that I find myself almost missing your intolerable face, dear,” she’d replied, a one shoulder shrug enough to let him know that she was always up for playing a game with a worthy adversary. “After all, what is a small threat between old friends?”

He’d smiled at her, wolfish grin understanding her challenge with familiar ease. “You do so amuse me.”

Even now, Regina understands that trying to cheat the god of cheaters might be a foolish errand, but then Rumpelstiltskin himself had referred to her in more than one occasion as brutishly childish in her relentlessness. She might not succeeded, but she’ll try with everything she has. As it is, her spell is powerful enough that it has given her mirrors a pathway into those at the Dark Castle, and yet the outcome of her endeavor has proven disappointing by the fact that a simple piece of fabric covering them is enough to keep her as blind as she’d been before of the comings and goings of the imp. Regina guesses that it’s surely the only reason why he allowed her the casting of the spell in the first place, knowing her frustration to be greater when what bars her wishes isn’t magic, but rather the most mundane of objects.

“That stupid, gloating, ever-knowing _imp,_ ” she groans, giving herself over to tired limbs and dropping her weight on the nearest chair, which so happens to be far away enough from father’s that he can’t possibly reach her without moving. Father _does_ move, but when he sits by her and grasps her hand he finds it cold and lifeless, her fingers uncooperative as he threads them together.

She’s so very tired, and not even father’s touch is enough to take away the lingering taste of spongy apple flesh from her tongue. She hasn’t eaten properly in days, and now she can’t even imagine ever feeling hungry again. She wonders, briefly, if perhaps Rumpelstiltskin isn’t to blame for this harvest of rotten apples; he does so have a talent for knowing how to hurt her, even with something as outwardly shallow as the fruit from her favorite tree. It’s her roots that are being tampered with, however, and in days that have her feeling both entirely too cumbersome and yet untethered, the brownish hearts marring what should have been beautifully crisp flesh seem like both a personal insult and a harbinger of destruction.

Regina sighs after a long and silent moment, pondering whether she wants to be left alone and rest, or whether going back to her council and their pending matters might be a better choice for her mind, which always seems closer to restfulness when running away from idleness. She’s not particularly sure that she can get anything done today, however, and the mild irritation still coursing through her veins may just end up with further impulsiveness that she doesn’t think she can afford. She’s almost deciding on claiming a headache and diving for her bed and hopefully a mostly nightmare-free bit of rest, perhaps even allowing her lady’s maid to force some soup in her if only to chase away the foul taste at the roof of her mouth, when a sliver of light coming from the mirror before her stops whatever movement or decision she was about to make. Never before has she seen more than shadows, or heard more than mumbled sounds.

It takes a moment, but before long the fabric covering the other side is falling away from the mirror, gifting Regina’s gaze with the sight of the main hall at the Dark Castle, and a woman standing right before her eyes, the old cloth now between her hands, and a delightfully mousy wrinkle to her nose as she inspects it.

“Well, _that_ is new,” Regina muses aloud, instinctively leaning forward on her seat as she inspects the figure before her, now busy discarding the cloth and dusting the surface of the mirror instead.

Has Rumpelstiltskin acquired himself a new maid? Or has he been hiding that pretty thing from her all this time? Regina can’t help but smirk at the sight, for the woman is most definitely a thing to admire. Small, lithe, moving about with efficient strokes as she cleans, and even in such lowly position, incapable of hiding a careful grace about her, feet light as her blue skirts bounce around her, wrists delicate, as if she were playing a familiar instrument rather than cleaning. Not that she seems to have much expertise, or to put entirely too much effort in the matter, actually, her countenance resembling a curious fairy rather than a dutiful servant. Not that she can possibly be the latter, for every single beat of her demeanor betrays a noble upbringing, the natural ease of her motions precise and limber.

Regina watches, and she watches for a long time, until the woman eventually gives up on notions of cleaning up altogether and picks up a boundless tome instead, sitting herself by one of the big and ornate windows and humming distractedly as she passes thin and fragile pages with something akin to reverence. She makes for the oddest picture within the dark and cluttered room, a nymph lost in purgatory while making her way to paradise, uselessly trying to brighten up a place consumed by the darkness of its owner. There’s something in her of Little Ace’s wistfulness, Regina notices, of the child of the fae looking upon the world with enchanted eyes, and it makes Regina burn with immediate hatred. Who is this woman that dares take such liberties within the Dark One’s abode, and how dare she read and hum as if trapped within a fairy tale when dwelling with such a creature?

A scowl mars Regina’s features, but she refuses to let go of this chance she has been given, and instead watches for as long as she’s allowed to, watches as Rumpelstiltskin comes into the room, as his teasing provocations fail to be the barbed wires they are when facing Regina and become chockfull of playfulness instead, as he imparts lessons to an attentive ear and drinks tea prepared by noble hands and served in a chipped cup as if it were but the most exquisite delicacy. Goodness, but the imp is _preening_ before this lady turned maid, shining under her attention with a countenance so human that Regina thinks she must be having a dream. Moreover, his lackluster and juvenile attempts at charm seem to be doing the trick, the woman’s eyes large and captivated by the vision of this boyish and bashful version of the Dark One prancing for her pleasure. It’s confounding and yet surprisingly eye-opening, for in mere moments, Rumpelstiltskin has unveiled his most pleasing and exploitable weakness – that he is, after all, no better than a man with a beating heart, capable of succumbing to the power of supple lips whispering words of admiration. It makes Regina laugh, cackle even, delight in every clear peal at the sight of a dark creature of powerful talents wishing himself a charming prince for the eyes of a wilting and beautiful woman.

Next to her, father fidgets, surprise evident in his eyes at Regina’s sudden change in demeanor, at her gait filled first with curiosity and then with mirth. Feeling uncontainable satisfaction, she turns to him with a full smile, cheeks surely flushed crimson. And to think she’d believed her destiny as rotten as her apples for a moment.

“Won’t you look at that, daddy?” she questions, rhetorical and unnecessary. “Who knew revenge would have such a beautiful face?”

 

* * *

 

In what bards and carnies would entitle the Great Apple Trick of the Evil Queen, Regina has rotten apples distributed among villages and pathways, a symbol of virulent abandon that her council reproaches her for with far more gravity that the situation requires. They had wanted her to feed the spoiled fruit to her horses, but it had hardly seemed fair to her to feed her beautiful and faithful beasts with such perished nourishment, while mocking her kingdom had offered an opportunity for petty amusement. She does have so little to laugh about these days.

The apple debacle is quickly forgotten, however, even if Regina knows the failed harvest will persecute her until the next one comes about, hopefully healthy and juicy. Nonetheless, there’s far more important business to attend to, and while Regina dismisses her council’s worries about mean-spirited gestures that do nothing for her popularity, she does listen when news of the uprising of noble houses up north begin reaching her steadily. She worries and frowns her way through weeks of war councils, unsure of how to proceed, and careful not to allow her instincts to take over, particularly when dark magic pulsing so close to her keeps blinding her to rational thought. The truth is, she’d be more than happy to cut heads and burn houses with little to no thought on the matter, but she refuses to be foolish in affairs as delicate and influential as her standing among noblemen. Her policies of keeping the court away from the palace have certainly garnered her no kindness, and coupled with her proclivity to find entertainment in the terrorizing of the higher classes, she knows most noble houses consider her insulting and conceited. However, she has always counted on their fear of losing their position being of more importance than calls for rebellion coming from commoners nobles have never shown regard or care for in the past. She should have known better, and taken the sign of Baroness Irene raising battle against her during the Summer Festival years ago as the beginning of an inevitable downfall.

As it is, she has her hands suddenly overflowed with nobles up in arms from within the kingdom, supporting Snow White’s claim to the throne. She’s not surprised by the uprising coming from the north of the kingdom, where conventions have always been more on the conservative side, and where the past drab and hard winter had been responsible for entirely too much death despite Regina’s best efforts. Those lands are also ignorant to Regina’s military endeavors, whereas the south and southeast borders have been victim to challenges and provocations from neighboring kingdoms, and have learnt to see Regina’s Black Army as protection rather than abuse. Whatever the case may be, insurrection among the ranks of noblemen brings disquiet to both her and her council. After all, she knows she lost the commoners long before she even took her seat as queen, and while love unobtained and popular protests are indeed problematic, it is the nobility which has true power in their hands, money, armies and regional seats influence enough to overthrow the royal sovereignty if properly organized.

Regina can’t guess at Snow’s prowess in establishing herself as the secret head of a rebellion, and she’s positive that the princess continues to run and hide while the kingdom raises a flag in her name, her apparitions always incidental and born of a limitless desire to be the hero the people claim her to be, rather than parts of a complex plan to fight Regina’s armies. However, the princess does seem to have developed an uncanny talent when it comes to gathering allies, the throes of magical and not so magical beings following her path only proof of an enchanting and unexplainable ability to inspire boundless loyalty in her companions. The huntsman had been the first to fall prey to her wiles; fairies, peasants and werewolves following right after; and now even creatures as capricious and ill-intentioned as mermaids seemingly falling under her spell. Then again, Regina shouldn’t be surprised that Snow had somehow managed to cross paths with perhaps the only gentle siren dwelling within Poseidon’s waters, and that the redheaded sea critter had ended up stabbing Regina with a rusty fork in perhaps the most humiliating yet poorly attempted escape Regina had ever been victim of. It’s been nearly a fortnight since that particular encounter now, and Regina’s still seething at the steely look Snow had given her, even while weakened by a tail and the unexpectedness of it all. Regina has promised herself not to give into her most dramatic flares again, but rather choose simple death over tricks and disguises, particularly those that grant her the wrath of the old gods. She swears Rumpelstiltskin is still laughing at her over managing to anger an ancient sea goddess thought long gone.

Indeed it seems that the more allies Snow gains, the more grudges Regina acquires, and so by the time the rebels in the north have been subdued, Regina has decided to follow her council’s advice and travel there with the purpose of issuing a pardon to the three counts leading the insurrection, even acquiescing to her Military Advisor’s request not to deliver any kind of punishment. Regina had set her mind on at least a fine of some sorts, and instead she’s readied herself to deliver a speech on forgiveness and a hopeful future where the kingdom’s desires are addressed without the need for violence. It’s all terribly polite and diplomatic, and Regina leaves her palace with disgruntled airs, determined to put up grumbling protests for as long as the journey lasts.

Duchess Adela travels with her, and she smiles approvingly as Regina weaves kind words and overly compliments her hosts, claiming to be honored by such reception and adamantly hoping for a future of peace and understanding. The visit lasts no more than a week, and yet Regina hates every second of it, shadows of the woman she had once been and thought already expelled taking over her bearings with entirely too much ease. She’s constantly reminded of a past long gone, when she’d been but an overpriced doll hanging from Leopold’s arm, forcing smiles and quiet sadness to survive a court that willed her into submission, and the feeling leaves a sour taste in her mouth. She even finds herself refusing food and drink at the quaint gatherings organized in her favor, wearing the softest dresses she owns, and speaking in a quiet voice that makes no demands, but that rather is entirely too fond of the world _please._ The whole ordeal makes her feel ill, and she’s inordinately relieved when she’s finally following her party to her carriage and away from the northern houses, carefully shredding away layers that she’d thought she’d never have to wear again.

“Never ask something like this from me again,” Regina commands hours later, eyes settled upon the dusty paths as they travel further north and all the way through the night, any request of rest adamantly denied. It seems that no distance will be far enough between her and their last abode before she will be able to swallow without tasting bile.

Duchess Adela, having travelled silently next to her all this time while distractedly perusing a tome on war history, doesn’t even bother looking up as she answers, “You did well, Your Majesty.”

Regina scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest and aiming a swift kick at the woman’s shins, making sure her heel does enough damage even through the duchess’ heavy woolen skirts. “Do not speak to me as if I were a dog, duchess, unless you want to find me inclined towards biting,” she replies, dismissing the duchess’ disapproving gaze and subtle touch to her surely bruised leg.

“One must do what is necessary for–”

“Not me, dear, and not for those ungrateful hypocrites that will lift up in arms again as soon as they’re done laughing about forcing the Evil Queen into daftness and follies,” she snaps, driving her eyes back towards the road so as to avoid the duchess’ now questioning gaze. “It was all an act, was it not? I didn’t buy into it, and neither did them.”

The duchess chuckles at that, and the sound is such a rare occurrence from the austere woman that Regina can’t help but look her way once more. Even her lady’s maid, busy as she’d been embroidering away as means of ignoring them both, raises a curious eyebrow.

“I do despise the sham, Your Majesty,” Adela explains, her tone revealing that perhaps her abrupt laughter had been more a gesture of resignation than one of amusement. “Perhaps the last leg of our journey will prove less trying.”

Regina clicks her tongue at that, stopping any other outward signs of annoyance and allowing the duchess to go back to her reading. If leaving the palace to play nice with a bunch of insipid minor lords had been irksome, then yielding to her Military Advisor’s desires for a visit to the lands of the late Queen Catherine will surely put the nail on a coffin that promises to burst open with careless rage. Queen Catherine’s son, who had been crowned king on Regina’s single and fateful visit to his kingdom, has spent a few years now requesting a visit from her, intentions unclear and muddled by words of warm friendship between adjoining nations, and Regina has been as quietly stubborn in her denials as King Edmund has been in his invitations. No one has ever managed to extract an explanation for such reticence out of her, and while such determination has been mostly ignored as one more of her arbitrary decisions, the latest uprising has had the Military Advisor campaigning for her acceptance of a diplomatic visit, claiming the prevention of further mutiny from the higher lands. After all, while Edmund’s lands hold his mother’s tradition of self-sufficiency and quietness, keeping the kingdom usually far away from their neighbor’s affairs, it seems all too risky to leave them be while the houses closest to the border rebel. An alliance with a different kingdom could prove deadly, after all, for it may just inspire others to join such war-like endeavors.

Regina isn’t particularly worried, not when her own military prowess has proven strong enough to bring King George and his allies to submission, and when Edmund’s own forces are but a sigh of what George amasses, and his interests so very obviously inclined towards peaceful indifference. However, their journey north had seemed like the perfect excuse to accept a fortnight under Edmund’s roof, never mind Regina’s personal desire to forget what had transpired there all those years ago. She has always made a particularly strong effort to consign to oblivion a woman that she had bedded and then killed without much of a thought, bitter betrayal burning in her chest intensely enough to push her into wasting life when she had hoped for companionship and understanding. Her thoughts of Catherine still taste of regret, and she can’t help but travel back to her kingdom and into her son’s welcoming arms with sour hostility claiming her every thought.

Nonetheless, Regina drops booted feet on mudded pathways not a day later, and faces the small castle that had so enchanted her the first time she’d laid eyes upon it. It’s no less charming this time around, the warm colors and tapestries covering thick walls pressing intimate relief against the cold autumn winds of the north. The days of the season are brown, orange and deep red, and in these higher lands, they smell of burning wood and toffee cakes, and they taste of crops of healthy apples and sweet roasted chestnuts. It’s irresistibly delightful, and Regina fails to fight the bewitchment even as she’s led to Catherine’s old bedchambers, where they’d once shared their bodies with unsatisfactory quietness and where the queen had met an early death at Regina’s hands.

King Edmund captivates her senses with quiet evenings entertained by fiddlers and bards, and with the rare allowance of solitary strolls through the nearby forest, her guards far enough behind her that Regina can pretend they’re not following her every step. It occurs to her that this small castle is much more of a home than her palace can ever hope to be, renovations and redecorating frenzies not quite managing to chase away the ghosts that continue to pile upon Regina’s shoulders, and so it is that she finds herself breathing with ease, when she’d thought the memory of late Queen Catherine would follow her around for as long as she remained between the walls that had once belonged to her. It’s not hard for Regina to realize, too, that putting distance between herself and the taunting magic of the Dark Curse has lifted a fog from between her eyes, her senses having become far more clouded by the sinuously tantalizing presence of powerful dark magic than she had realized.

Truth be told, she had been rather apprehensive about leaving the curse behind, both at the prospect of some magically ambitious person going after it, and at simply letting go of its influence. Her magic had attuned itself so to that of the curse than she finds herself surprised at the way it seems to be pleasantly settling itself at the back of her head yet again, a comfortable purr of controlled power instead of the unrestrained force thundering at the tip of her fingers it has been as of late.

Mists lifted and senses sharpened, Regina is quick to realize that the king and his step-brother, who owns the title of First Advisor of the Court, most definitely want something from her. Regina can’t possibly fathom what it may be, but even through the tranquility that takes over her, she easily spies the slyness of the brothers, and the double approach they seem to be juggling between them. First Advisor Roger is particularly fond of overly adorned compliments of poetic fancies, it seems, and his folly may have irritated Regina were she feeling a little less forgiving due to the intimate character of the small castle. As it is, when the man frolics about her she simply allows it with an amused curl to her lips, as if he were but an overly excited child. The king proves worthier of her attention, however, quiet demeanor and a shine to dark eyes to match his late mother’s, a tuft of curly brown hair atop a face far too beautiful to be called ruggedly handsome. Regina doesn’t dislike him, and she finds herself wondering if his game is nothing more than a strangely quiet way of courting her. It would seem like a uniquely strange match, were it not for the small daughter Edmund’s recently deceased wife had left behind, and had rumors of Regina’s lack of an heir not run wild through the realm for years. The commoners are fond of the idea that she offers her secretly birthed children as sacrifice to a personal demon, and Regina can’t help but think that there are shades of truth in the otherwise ridiculous hearsay.

Whatever the case may be, Adela accuses Regina of seeing hostile shadows where there are none, never mind that every single time she’s left her guard down for a single moment she’s ended up victim to attacks and slander. Regina allows herself no naiveté in this instance, and soon finds herself tired of the brothers' performance, which always finds its end at a request for company on an otherwise lonely walk by the forest. Patience has never been one of her virtues, after all, and subtlety the first layer she’d shed the moment Leopold had been resting on his death bed, and she finds that she no longer enjoys those games that she doesn’t stage herself. Honestly, the whole thing is only managing to trample with her restfulness, and so before any ill-intentioned surprises can come her way, she is the one to invite the king to join her for a peaceful afternoon stroll with the simple intention of inquiring about his purposes. After all, as far she can tell, perhaps she’s perceiving violence when the man simply wishes to bed her, or something equally inconsequential, and the duchess may just be right about calling her on her paranoia.

As they walk, the evening sun begins to wane, painting the forest in beautiful orange hues, which seem to render King Edmund incapable of holding his tongue. He speaks fondly of the history of his kingdom, his inclinations towards art and the loveliness of a wife that made him into a far too young widower. Regina couldn’t care less about it all, but she allows him his gentle retellings, at least until he crinkles his nose into an amused expression, and gives an incredulous tone to his otherwise rich voice.

“And to think mother wished me married to Princess Snow White!”

Regina’s fist tightens imperceptibly at the mention, as well as at the memory of Queen Catherine choosing to deal with Leopold behind her back for a marriage arrangement that had failed to come to fruition. The queen had died for her carelessness and the betrayal that she had sliced Regina’s heart with, and she finds herself wondering if the past won’t come to haunt her after all.

Rather than express any thought on the matter, Regina simply wonders, “Oh?”

Edmund laughs, the sound deep and throaty, attractive in a way that may have prodded Regina into lust were her sexual cravings not as twisted as her regular appetite these days. As it is, lovemaking has no place in her life as of late, whatever twisted sexual relationship she has developed with the huntsman little else than an exercise in mutual humiliation. There is something rather alluring about this king, nonetheless, eight years her junior and ripe for corruption, as intimately enticing as the kingdom he inhabits. Then again, his mother had once proven equally disarming, and yet she’d failed to please Regina’s passions.

“Mother spoke to you about it, surely.”

And oh, how simple it is to spy unasked questions in such a statement. Is this the king’s game? An enquiry about an old planned alliance that never came to pass? It seems like too much of a trifle to require subterfuge, but then Regina has grown so unaccustomed to courts and their dealings, and has so very little interest in such affairs, that perhaps such questions necessitate a long preamble of pleasantries.

However, without clear knowledge of what the king wishes to ask, Regina chooses to play her cards close to her chest, and distractedly answers, “My acquaintance with your mother was hardly of any consequence, dear.” Then, with knowing cheek, she adds, “You know how it is with women, don’t you? It’s all dresses, babies and gossip with us.”

“My mother was hardly an airheaded woman,” the king counters, severity tingling at the corners of his words and betraying a sigh of previously well-hidden tension. He seems to realize the snappishness of his reply immediately, however, and is quick to palliate any possible offense by saying, “Neither are you for that matter, Your Majesty.”

Regina stops in her tracks as he says this, narrowing her eyes in mild-annoyance at finding herself unable to divine the king’s true intentions. Superficially, it would be easy to incline her thoughts towards quaint seduction, and yet she has a hunch that the king means her ill in some way. Nonetheless, the spot she has casually chosen to stop their walk is most adequate to romance, a small clearing among thick trees, the crunch of fallen leaves beneath their feet and the scent of pinewood around them, only the pale fading light filtering through the trees to illuminate them. Coincidentally, it makes for a perfect spot to stage someone’s death, the blowing wind enough to hide any screams.

“As I said,” Regina insists, her gaze wandering and her tone aloof, “I barely knew the late queen, airhead or not.”

King Edmund steps closer then, his thin frame failing to be imposing but his posture leaning forward to suggest a prowling animal. “There is no need for lies, Regina,” he says, and Regina’s eyes snap at that, get tinted with fury at the casual use of her name.

“Careful, boy; I don’t advise abusing my forgiving mood.”

“Or what, _Your Majesty?_ ” He questions, disdain dripping from his voice as he drops any pretense of casual admiration and instead rams straight into defiance, squaring his shoulders and growing taller with the single gesture.

He’s not wearing armor and yet he’s carrying his sword, which Regina only notices when he steps closer to her, crowding her space and snatching her hand in a tight grip as soon as she’s within his range. His grasp is brutishly restraining, but Regina’s worn shackles far more bruising than this king’s poor attempt at being menacing, and she remains calm even as she sees the fury escalating within a gaze that has been nothing but gentle before today, taking over a frame that has been both attractive to look at and unobtrusive enough to fool Regina into a sense of serene relief. She instinctively pulls away from him, but he merely tightens his fingers about her wrist, his resolve growing stronger as he drags her body closer to his so he’s breathing right on her face, forcing a disgusted grimace into her lips.

“What will you do, then? Tear my heart out and crush it as you did my mother’s?”

She leans back as he speaks, and he must confuse her repulsion with fear, for he laughs before her, triumph in the sound. Except Regina laughs with him, vicious mockery travelling with the sound until she’s quieted her opponent.

“Actually, dear, I think that is exactly what I will do.”

Regina plunges her free hand inside the king’s chest, grasping at his beating heart just as a handful of soldiers reveal themselves, coming at her from behind the trees with cries of treason. Regina’s not stupid, however, and her paranoia has certainly proven useful, for the raised swords of Kind Edmund’s knights clang against those of her own Black Guards, ordered to silently trail her from afar as means of precaution. With the sound of fighting weapons about her and the grunting king falling to his knees before her, Regina smirks, finding herself gleefully delighted by the violence of it all, by the easily exerted power of her hands. Belatedly, she realizes that there’s far more satisfaction in this victory than in a million days spent within tranquil and intimate walls.

King Edmund continues to fall down, so Regina removes his heart from his chest so that she may stand straight before him, the war spoil that is his beating life carefully held between her nimble fingers. She squeezes softly, and the king groans as he finally releases his grip on Regina, moving both his hands to his own chest, as if he could hold the pain in and stop it with his own two hands. His fingers have left bruises on Regina’s skin, and the sight of her flesh, purpled once again by the undeserving hands of a bumbling king, makes her squeeze harder.

“You won’t win,” the king exclaims from his prone position, valiant as he lifts his gaze up towards her, something like the legendary yet stupid bravery of the knights of fairytales in his breathless words. “Princess Snow White will claim her throne, and you will–”

“Oh, for goodness’ sakes,” Regina complains, squeezing the life out of the king with sure fingers just so she doesn’t have to listen to his predictable speech – she has honestly lost the count of how many people have died with Snow’s name between their lips, claiming her as the hero that will surely defeat the Evil Queen.

Regina rolls her eyes as the wind steals the ashes of the king’s heart from her palm, and she sighs, feeling defeated now that the exhilaration of the confrontation is gone. It seems that Snow will trail her wherever she goes, and that her past will catch up to her no matter what, and Regina has the abrupt need to return home and hide herself in her chambers for a few days, nothing but a warm bath and a warmer bed to shield her against the judgment of the world. However, she has just killed a king, and she has to deal with his sorry little kingdom before she can allow herself to rest. Duchess Adela will be ever so miffed when she hears about this, and Regina is already getting a headache from the lecture she will surely have to endure. After all, heart crushing isn’t particularly diplomatic, and she had promised to behave during this trip.

Mild frustration fills her chest when she looks upon the deceased king, his body crumpled against the bed of leaves much like his mother’s had once been. What a waste of life, Regina muses. Then, she lifts her eyes to her surroundings, where the men of her guard are standing as the proud winners of a fairly short skirmish, swords tainted by red blood as they stand before her, prepared to receive instructions. Regina shrugs, considering her options, and eventually smirks and gives her men exactly what they’re hankering for.

“Well, boys, it seems like we have a kingdom to conquer.” Then, with a playful pout, “You will tell Duchess Adela the king forced my hand, won’t you, dears?”

And among laughter and a cry of _Yes, Your Majesty_ , Regina makes her way back to the castle.

 

* * *

 

Her return to the palace is less than victorious, the news of her latest crimes having already reached the ears of a council that had thought that sending Adela with her as chaperone would be enough to keep her impulses under control. Regina has very little time for their reproach, however, and she resolutely walks past the receiving committee they have formed around her, and steadfastly refuses to meet with them for days. Somehow, she has a hunch that they will be making some logical points as soon she authorizes them to speak, and Regina would rather wallow in her self-righteous anger for a little bit longer.

She hardly thinks she did so terribly, truth be told, particularly when garnering sympathies is such a foreign concept for her at this point. She’s the Evil Queen and she will remain as such even if she holds a gentle hand or offers a kind smile, so she might as well free herself from gestures she doesn’t wish to make, and from pleasantries that only manage to upset her. Perhaps stopping by the northern houses on her way back and claiming the heads of those she had pardoned not a fortnight before had been a bit of a melodramatically overblown decision, but then they had dared defy her on Snow White’s name, and why she had allowed herself to be convinced towards forgiveness in the first place baffles her. There is no place for diplomacy in her rule, and everyone should know better by now; honestly, it’s not as anyone is out there proclaiming her leniency, so rebels might as well assume that there will be a price to pay for insurgence.

Her passing through Queen Catherine’s old kingdom hasn’t been quite as catastrophic as her council seems to think either. True, the king now lays dead right next to his mother, but his step-brother had been quick to give up the kingdom to her with little to no fight, and had accepted to step down from the line of succession in exchange for his life. Regina had then entrusted the title of Warden to King Edmund’s little daughter, had given her the rule over the now headless houses north of the kingdom, and had left Duchess Adela behind as tutor and custodian of the child and her title, under orders of forming a council of local noblemen to guide the territory until the girl is of age. The duchess had been inordinately pleased, having developed a soft spot for the girl, and had rapidly forgiven Regina’s sins for the chance to play mother and educator to the dimpled little thing. It had been a bloodless coup, and Regina knows that the adjoining of the lands to her own kingdom won’t hurt them in the least, and that she has a loyal and trusted advisor in Duchess Adela, who will bring up the child to be smart and resourceful.

Nonetheless, the general feeling around the palace is that she has somehow managed to fail everyone’s expectations, whatever those might have been. She has the feeling that her council spends entirely too much time speaking behind her back, and while she hasn’t cared much for such unavoidable judgment in the past, as of late it has taken a sudden and dangerous tint. She has half a mind to send them all packing, just so they can’t be the ones to leave her. She grows apprehensive at the thought, and finally concedes to a quiet meeting with her Military Advisor, hoping that a one on one conversation with her most trusted advisor will be smoother than facing a room full of disappointed faces. It proves nothing of the sort, however, since Duke Nicholas appears to be the most disenchanted of them all, immediately immersing himself in a diatribe as Regina hasn’t received since the days when she was Leopold’s wife, rather than his widow. The Military Advisor complains of lackluster political delicacy, berates her for her impulsive foolishness, and overall admonishes her as one would an inexperienced and irresponsible child, all the while pacing before her with fingers pinched against his nose, as if her whole existence is reason enough to cause a headache. Regina listens, and she listens dutifully and quietly, choosing to sip a warm cup of tea while the man bents his frustrations away.

“Are you quite done, dear?” she questions once the duke stops both his words and his pacing, remaining instead standing before her with arms hanging limply by his sides, his strict mouth set in a tight line that doesn’t manage to be quite as imposing as usual with his small moustache upset by his mindlessly ruffling fingers.

The Military Advisor chooses not to answer, not her words or the challenge in her raised eyebrow. Instead, he sits down before her, his weight falling heavily on the plush settee even as his straight posture doesn’t waver. Regina appraises him for a moment, appreciating how despite his obvious tiredness and his by now old age, his energetic and rather youthful appeal endures - belatedly, and for a little over a second, she has the thought that, in a different lifetime where they had both had more tolerance for lies, they may have made quite the marriage. However, their time is long past, and Regina has neither the time nor the patience for his judgment when all she holds dear is his advice.

“Was there something useful in that long-winded speech of yours?” she wonders, distractedly, the noise of her cup being left on its plate uncomfortably loud inside the room. “I trust you have more than shallow reproach to offer me.”

The shake of the Advisor’s head is barely noticeable, as is his annoyed huff, but his voice is clear and his words clipped when he leaves behind levelheaded admonishing and instead says, “Perhaps Leopold wasn’t completely wrong when he called you a difficult child.”

Regina bristles, unbridled anger crawling up her spine and burning hot white against her throat. The Military Advisor must understand it even before she does, for she finds him standing by the time she stands on her own feet, her hand reaching forward and grasping the air, a tight fist wrapping over nothing but intention clear as to its destination. Regina snarls, furious that a man that has showed her such utter respect in the past would dare insult her with words of a man that had nothing but neglectful disdain for her, when not exhibiting blind misunderstanding and fear.

“I apologize, Your Majesty. That was uncalled for.”

There’s dignity in his tone and posture, and not even a flinch of fear at the sight of Regina’s outstretched hand, at the obvious yet unwitting purpose of her clenched fist. Her hand is nothing but firm, and yet she feels as if she were trembling, the hidden desire of reaching for the man’s heart shaking her to her core. He’s a trusted advisor, one of the few people in the world she respects, and he has played his part of wise uncle with efficiency and without reproach, with understanding beyond what Regina’s ever known and with high regard for her abilities. If she stretches her thoughts she might even call this man a friend, and she doesn’t wish to hurt him. It would be so easy, though, her hand and her cruelty already so used to destroying that which displeases her.

She breathes in and out slowly, hoping to calm herself down enough that pulling back from her impulses won’t feel like backing down from an issued challenge. The sound of it reverberates against her head, and by the time her hand is back against her chest and being held there as if afraid, she realizes that there are tears threatening the corners of her eyes, sudden fear at her own actions assaulting her with unwavering resolve. One of her breaths turns into a gasp, and she takes a step back before turning around completely, her back to the Advisor while she closes her eyes tightly and presses her thumb against her opposing palm, the well-known painful pressure focusing wandering senses. She feels out of control, and she wonders if such abandon isn’t a heftier pair of shackles than complete frailty once was.

“Your Majesty, may I speak freely?”

“No, you may not,” she snaps, her tone sharper than she meant it to be, but ultimately brokering no argument, as is her wish.

Permission for candid words may just grant the duke a death sentence just as well, and Regina would rather not risk his life. She feels constricted all of a sudden, and when her hands travel down to her stomach they fail to settle there, her nails scratching at the hard fabric of her corset instead. The whalebones of the ornamental construction are suddenly impossibly tight around her frame, and she wonders if the haziness around her head is due to it, or simply to her chaotic responses to everything around her. Has she truly been this out of control before? Because if so, then perhaps the duke and the rest of the council are right to question a monarch that can’t be trusted to wear a layer of artful diplomacy without hankering for punishment in exchange. Goodness, but it must be that curse driving her insane, or maybe the shadow of Snow White meddling with her feelings and making them unrecognizable.

The Military Advisor sighs behind her, and the sound is followed by steps and rustling, which has Regina turning back around to hopefully bid him goodbye. The man allows her no reprieve, however, instead offering her a pile of open missives.

“News from the kingdom, Your Majesty,” he intones.

“Well?”

Briskly, he spreads open one of the missives, pushing it against her until she takes it, rather than let it fall to the floor between them. He doesn’t stop there, however, repeating the motion until Regina’s hand is holding onto several papers, written pages that reveal nothing to Regina’s inattentive gaze, the Advisor’s frustration coming to her with far more clarity than whatever it is he wishes to tell her.

“News from the past few days have reached every corner of the kingdom, Your Majesty,” he explains finally, enunciating every word as if Regina may misinterpret him if he doesn’t. “The answer is the same every time; mistrust, fear and worry, words that betray disloyalty. Your kingdom is losing faith in your government.”

Regina snorts, glancing briefly at the papers in her hands just to read the signatures, pomposity present even in the calligraphy of some of the noblemen sending such apparently worrisome inquires. “My dear duke, did it ever have any at all? Or shall I remind you that my life was threatened on the very same day my husband was being laid to rest?”

“Superstitious commoners are one thing, Your Majesty, but this surpasses ignorance and rumors. No one will care for dead peasants or noblemen made to bow too low, but death among the noble ranks, titles being lorded over their heads with no guaranties… This may become a rebellion that not even our army can defeat.”

A letter remains still within the Military Advisor’s grasp, and Regina tears it away from him and rests it among its sisters, all of them promptly falling to their death when Regina tosses them into the lighted fireplace. The Advisor squeaks his disapproval unwittingly, covering the undignified sound quickly enough with a disproportionate cough, and Regina spies him quenching the awkwardness with a sip of what must be by now the coldest of teas. Regina smirks at the performance, and finds that the small act of violence, as silly as it has been, helps with her clouding senses so that she no longer feels as if her temperament will get the best of her. Unread letters with predictable messages aren’t a too high price to pay for a little peace of mind.

“I should have foreseen that broken egos would do more damage than most crimes,” she states, eyes planted firmly on the fire before her, the quiet hiss of the orange flames as they consume the paper satisfying in a way that is already familiar. There is such tranquility in the consuming force of wildfire.

Once the papers are but blackened embers turning to ashes, she turns back towards the Advisor, her hands against her stomach, not even the sight of the flames enough to take away the tightness about her torso. She feels bloated, and she decides that the moment this meeting is over she won’t take even the briefest of moments before dressing herself in a loose nightgown, never mind the early hour.

“What do you propose we do, duke?” she questions, desperate to get to the point of this conversation.

The man twists his lips in a familiar gesture of pensive doubt, and that is enough to let Regina know that she won’t be liking his answer. She spreads her fingers over her abdomen, steadying herself, and is glad when the duke doesn’t shy away from the topic, and chooses bluntness over subtlety.

“The princess,” he says.

“What about her?”

“Bringing Princess Snow White back into the fold, if you will, would surely calm whatever looming insurrection we may have in our hands.”

Regina snorts, thankful that there’s more amusement than anger in the sound. “And what do you suggest? Should I give her my crown, after all?”

“To that absurd _child_? Mercy, _no._ ”

The answer is so adamant and immediate, and such a rare spontaneous reaction from the Military Advisor that Regina can’t help but laugh, genuine delight coloring the sound. It’s a well-known fact that Duke Nicholas can’t abide by children, more often than not choosing to leave the room when in presence of someone younger than sixteen, and it doesn’t surprise Regina that Snow remains like an eternal child in the man’s memories. Back in the day, he’d dealt with the princess’ enthusiasm by awkwardly patting her head as if she were but a particularly well-trained dog. His attitude towards Regina hadn’t been much better, his propensity towards distrusting the fairer sex only subdued by long and hardworking years, Regina’s brain, and her personal taste for military affairs. They’re used to each by now, and Regina can only guess that dealing with Snow’s hopeful fancies would perhaps be a thousand times harder for him than handling Regina’s mercurial outbursts.

“What, then?” Regina questions after a moment, genuinely curious about what the Military Advisor is about to propound.

“Pardon the girl,” he says, almost immediately recovering his pacing rhythm from the first berating moments of this conversation, as if his words are easier to weave when looking at the shiny marble floors, rather than into Regina’s souring gaze. “Give her a nominal place in the council and marry her to some adequately high-ranking nobleman. Give her the Summer Palace as a wedding gift to keep her out of your way, and surely by the time she’s began popping babies she will forget about any political proclivities she may have.” Then, as an afterthought, "It would do you good to consider her children as possible heirs, Your Majesty; we all had hopes for your little cousin, alas, it wasn’t meant to be.”

Regina flinches, the mention of Little Ace and her death as well as her unborn baby raising a foul taste to the back of her throat. She’s been so good at not thinking about her, or about the silly hopes she’d unwittingly put on their future together and that of her child, so good at believing that the girl had meant nothing, that she hadn’t lost the connection to her past that she’d been, that she didn’t miss her annoying habits and her impossible to ignore presence, and she doesn’t wish for anyone to see a crack in such a façade, lest she stops believing it herself. She does her best at forgetting such thoughts, and instead concentrates on the Military Advisor’s plans for the princess, spectacularly rational as they are, and yet impossible to match with Regina’s true desires.

Regina had had the chance to offer Snow as sacrifice to an arranged marriage, and not only had she decided on a different route, but she had despaired at the idea of making a painful altar out of her unwilling body. She’s not surprised that Duke Nicholas, an unmarried nobleman after all despite whatever virtues he exudes, would think an arranged marriage a more merciful destiny than death. Regina knows better, and not only does she deserve an open confrontation with her proclaimed enemy, but she’s positive that Snow would be the first to agree with her on the matter. A fight to the death with the kingdom as battleground is the inevitable result of their twisted sisterhood, and a slow burning death in the embrace of _some adequately high-ranking nobleman_ is not an answer that Regina can abide by. Furthermore, her chipped and little heart crooked by darkness won’t allow her to pardon Snow; she suspects, too, that the princess wouldn’t take it if it were to be offered anyway. There is no resolution for them that doesn’t end in death, and no diplomatic middle grounds will do for them.

“I can’t do that, duke,” she says, firm determination in her tone even as her hands begin to fidget involuntarily, searching once again for the pain of a thumb pressed against a palm with arduous strength.

There are no harsh words forthcoming when the Military Advisor stops his nervous pacing to stare at her, but Regina would have preferred them to what follows. Violence is easier to deal with, easier to punish, and the sudden fondness the Advisor bestows upon her when he places a big and steady hand on her shoulder is confounding and makes her feel irreverently tiny. His face betrays no such tenderness, him being as bad at offering up gentleness as she is at receiving it, and for a moment they both rest in silent tension, unsure of the uncharted territory they have waddled into. Regina doesn’t shrug the touch off, however, thankful that her dress covers her shoulder so that their skin isn’t touching, and yet more disconcerted than upset by the all too casual touch. Not many men have touched her without hiding menace or sexual desire in their caress, and she finds that she doesn’t know quite what to do with such affection from this man, whatever care they may have felt for each other always wrapped in business-like respect.

“Child,” he says, and the term, which she would have hated from anyone else, and which the duke would have spoken with nothing but derision were she a different person, is a gentle caress from a rough timber, the dear name for a loved daughter, and it sets Regina’s heartbeat to a steady but hard rhythm, to a long-forgotten pulse of vulnerable exposure.

It’s a moment before he speaks again, and when he does, he repeats the endearment, as if knowing it if not completely well-received, then at least not unwanted either.

“Child, you are everything I have ever hoped for from the owner of this kingdom’s crown, but this princess of yours, this obsession - it won’t let you think properly, it’s driving you insane.”

The gentle honesty of his words manages to ward off Regina’s always boiling anger, her confusion at the sudden intimacy still pounding inside her chest so her immediate reaction is defeated rejection. There is much that no one in this kingdom can understand, not even Snow herself, and she knows why they think her mad, why they believe the princess pure and innocent while she remains a villainous abuser. She has neither the strength nor the desire to expose her scars for the world to see. There aren’t enough words for her anyhow, not to explain mother’s harsh lessons burning like never dying embers under her skin, to speak of dark cellars and darker expectations, to bring to light years of losses and abuse at the oppressive hands of a court, a husband and a step-daughter that needed her to be something that she never truly was, to express her backed turned towards her loving father and to acknowledge unveiled magic gnarled amongst the remains of her heart, holding it together so it doesn’t shatter with a single push. Most of all, there are no words to encompass Daniel, the pain of his loss teasing at her with healing warmth at times, only to acutely stab her heart like the sharpest of glass shards in the next moment. And all of it Snow White’s fault, her capriciousness and her privilege taking ownership of Regina’s life with careless disregard and childlike cruelty.

Regina plucks the Advisor’s hand away from her shoulder with careful fingers, squeezing them with as much quiet affection as she can muster for the man. It’s odd, how they’ve never truly touched before, and as she’s slowly letting go of his hand, she knows they will not do it again.

Choosing to repay his candid honesty with her own, however, she looks into his eyes and says, “You are a most trusted advisor, duke, but there are things not even you can understand. Please, don’t ever mention this again.”

His eyes flash with annoyance at her words, and yet he doesn’t question her further, simply straightening up once again and leaning away from Regina’s frame, putting a respectful distance between them. It’s a familiar way of drawing up walls, one that Regina knows well, and she detects the moment their brief lapse of judgment is over, and shivers with relief after the sudden weakness of their shared gentleness. She knows the Advisor fears she will be consumed by her compulsions, and that the kingdom will be consumed right along, but no amount of honest concern will drive her away from her purpose.

Coughing uncomfortably, the Military Advisor turns his back on her and once again ruffles amongst his papers in search for something, effectively recovering their usual communication. Regina fidgets for a too long moment still, feeling uncommonly swollen and confined, so that when she’s offered an as of yet to be opened letter she takes it with abrupt gratefulness, relieved by the distraction.

“A personal urgent letter from King George, Your Majesty,” the Military Advisor explains, settling himself straight and tall and probably waiting for instructions were the letter to bring important news.

Regina tears the seal open, thankful for George’s lack of flourishes in his letters as she reads the short and to-the-point message.

“It seems that Prince James has run away days before his wedding,” Regina confesses, sparing a smile for the spectacularly clumsy shepherd that had been playing prince. It baffles her why King George would think such matter urgent, or even of her interest, but then George has always had a way of knowing what information will prove useful.

“Perhaps he expects you to spare a few men in the prince’s search?” The Military Advisor suggests.

“No instructions as to the matter, and you know George has no qualms about ordering about even those he shouldn’t,” she says, a whine hidden somewhere in her tone. Goodness, she has no energy left for this today. Making up her mind, she foregoes a sigh and simply commands, “Do write to him and solve the mystery.” Then,” Tell him that if desires are not forthcoming and were the prince to fall into my hands, I may find myself inclined to cut a finger or two.”

“Your Majesty…”

“What? I won’t _kill_ him, dear, if that worries you, even if George’s prince is no prince at all; but it does well to keep good, old George on his toes nonetheless. You know he falls into notions of grandeur otherwise.”

The Military Advisor chuckles at her statement, and she smirks, the uncomfortable inconvenience of their shared honesty gone now under a thin sheen of mild understanding and a desire to remain the queen and her advisor, as they very well should. Then, she excuses herself after scheduling a council meeting for the next week, and traipses her way back to her bedchambers, thoughts of removing her dress and taking a warm and long bath the only thing clouding her mind.

 

* * *

 

Autumn days move fast and agile, avoiding the usual sluggishness of the season with chaotic uproar at every possible front. The Military Advisor hadn’t been wrong when speaking of a noble class suddenly taking an interest on a possible change in the royal seat, and so Regina finds herself busy with strengthening patrols and giving further authority to her army officials. She campaigns to reinforce her army’s numbers just as well, and is content to ascertain that a position in her ranks remains a tempting enough option for many a young a man, the money and privilege of walking the world behind a black uniform a better option than any manual work.

Nonetheless, Regina soon realizes that she’s sending far too many of her men out there to the world just to die, for the quiet rebellion of the commoners has become an effort supported by secret yet powerful hands. Where her men had been facing untrained weapon wielders just months ago, when not pitches and forks, they find themselves facing properly armed groups of men these days, suited for the fight and more than ready to engage in it. Whoever is founding such endeavors continues to be a mystery, but at least Regina can discern that it must be someone with too much money and too little sense, for the saving grace her army counts on is the rather rampageous nature of the industry. Unclear in its purpose and seemingly content with quick yet useless achievements, the revolution is causing mayhem and furor, but fails to be more successful than a tavern brawl, considering that its fighters are more often than not mercenaries with loyalties that waver towards the highest bidder, and that there isn’t any order or harmony when it comes to places attacked or victories obtained. Mostly, Regina has chaos in her hands, and soldiers dying over nothing at all.

Therefore, her own efforts turn towards uncovering those who must be the paying hands of the insurrection, torture and recompense her two opposing methods, which have proven fruitful through the years. As it is, the problem lays in the fact that for every head she cuts another one rises, so that each day that passes convinces her with more intensity that her solution lays with Snow White, and with her head being the one offered up as sacrifice. After all, with no one else having a claim to the throne, there is no other hero the people may raise a flag for.

Regina sees herself trapped within the palace, having chosen herself not to ride away with her army when there isn’t an opposing military force to battle, but only minor crowds of paid for insurgents. She doesn’t want the kingdom to think that she’s worried by such trivial matters, nor to give the impression that her government may somehow be in any trouble. It’s a very rational decision, particularly when the constant military expenses have her doubling the hours spent with the Treasury Master studying the kingdom’s accounts, but she can’t help but feel that her senses would be much more fulfilled were she to spend her days riding about with _Rocinante_ and joining her men in battle, the scent of blood over the fields conquering her days and the warmth of music and laughter shared filling up her nights.

There are no battles for her to be had outside of the council room these days, however, and so despite the discomfort of a kingdom adamant in crusading against her, life becomes a dull affair. Even if the days pass with expeditious energy, the hectic nature of the world around them fooling her council into a false sense of hastiness, Regina feels listless, devoid of vigor and unsuccessful in her attempts to care for much of what is going on around her. Her spirit seems to have abandoned her, her eyes only shining with curious delight when news of Snow reach her ears, which is most certainly not as often as they should. For all she knows the princess hasn’t dwelled within her lands for weeks, and her relentless pursuit is nothing but a maddening delusion.

Matching her drowsiness, or perhaps foretelling her doom, her apple tree continues to wane, the birthing of rotten apples having begun a withering process that sees no pause. Her newest Royal Gardener had suggested a trim, hoping that cutting away those branches that were damaged would allow it to regain its health, but the process has done nothing but make it look thinner and lacking, as if starved for something that Regina can’t guess at. Every day she spares a few minutes to gaze at it, forlornly thinking of the day it had been transplanted to the palace, bringing with it roots that Regina still needs to survive.

Perhaps it’s not the tree that’s matching her, though, but rather the other way around, for her frame feels to her as brittle as glass, impossibly light and ready to be blown away by a gust of wind. It’s an odd contradiction, since she’s been inordinately swollen for days now. It’s not as if she’s been eating particularly well as of late, the bitterness of putrid fruit persecuting her even weeks later, and it might be that tasteless soups, the rare bite of fish and entirely too much wine aren’t the most advisable diet to follow if she wishes to fight her own stagnant tastes. There’s little time to think of food, however, and so both her and her tree wither with near stubborn determination.

Winter sets in early, and the icy winds bring Nubia the Pirate Queen to Regina’s shores. There are no apples to be had this year round, and so Regina finds herself at a loss when the pirate makes her way to the palace with gifts of scented oils, fine fabrics and exotic spices, having nothing that she feels of equal value in return. Nonetheless, Nubia is more than happy to take nothing but shelter for her crew and the warmth of Regina’s bed for herself. Regina receives her with a burst of passion that dwindles far too quickly, and soon the Pirate Queen is facing a Regina that has lost the taste for stories of faraway lands, and who seems much too peeved by spoiled fruit and a dying tree.

“Tides are changing, my queen of sands,” Nubia tells her then, dark skin failing to provoke as it once did, and tongue busy spinning commonplace superstitions of a life of piracy, which Regina can’t muster interest in.

“Are they now, my dear?” Regina questions, a mockery of laughter curling the corner of her lips, her humoring of the pirate juxtaposed with unavoidable disdain.

“Laugh all you want; the air smells of blood ‘n treason in these lands. Something dark be coming our way. The _Jolly Roger’s_ come back from Neverland, and the Sea Witch has returned to doom good sailors to Davy Jones’ treasure chest – ‘tis dangerous waters that we sail in.”

Regina laughs despite the warnings in Nubia’s voice, her mood fickle enough that she’s by parts delighted and desperately fatigued by her tales. The legends of Davy Jones and Captain Hook have never held any particular interest for her, the romantic notions usually attached to lives of piracy always boundlessly ridiculous to her ears; after all, if she’d brought Nubia to her life it’d been due to her bloodlust, a trait shared by all those who choose to set sail under a pirate flag. There’d been a friend of Snow White once, a ridiculously whiny princess that had spun tales of pirates and thieves with twinkling eyes and fancies of wild romance, and at age eighteen, after being forced into an engagement with a count that doubled her age and matched her beauty with his ugliness, and her foolishness with his own, she’d run away in search of the pirates of her stories. She’d found them, and after a little over two months of sailing, she’d been returned to her fiancé dressed in rags, with a mark of ownership scorched onto her left breast, and eyes so dulled out of life that she’d welcomed the death sentence Leopold had bestowed upon her. Snow had cried, and she’d done so for long hours and against Regina’s shoulder, and for the month that she had refused to speak to her father, Regina had done her best at disambiguating Snow from maudlin attachment towards figures of legend that were no better than butchers.

As for the Sea Witch, Regina is positive that myth and fables surround her with as much mysticism and darkness as they do Regina herself, but she can hardly consider the woman much of a threat when she’s seen her drunk as a skunk and tripping over her own tentacles.

Thus, Regina says goodbye to the Pirate Queen without heeding any of her ominous advice and after no more than two cloudy and long days, her and her crew finding themselves restless with the firmness of soil under their feet, and hankering for the wild winds of the sea. Regina breathes better once she’s gone, the enchantment she’d found in her once lost now that fanciful knowledge of foreign and wonderful people seems like a waste of time rather than a bit of enjoyable amusement. The scents of cumin and thyme linger long after she’s gone, however, and they make Regina feel sick to her stomach, the bloating of both her body and her senses that refuses to leave her only pushing further discomfort into a frame that has forgotten how to find pleasure.  

A few days after Nubia has left her, her back begins to ache with pain similar to exhausted twinges, and her head insists on throbbing disproportionately, making her suspect a bout of fever. Perhaps no curses or afflictions are to blame for her weariness after all, and she’s merely falling victim to a regular spell of high temperature. As it is, the sudden bleeding that manages to stain thankfully dark pants while half dozing her way through a council meeting tells her otherwise, the common signs of a period not having occurred to her after she’d lost them the moment she’d taken the infertility potion. The thin trickle of watered down blood that she discovers running down her leg while taking a bath after the tirelessly long meeting renders her speechless, however, and when after a bath and a night of spoiled sheets the blood doesn’t flow any longer, she chooses to ignore the mishap altogether, every fiber of her being burning with uncomfortable shame.

She traipses the palace like a wounded animal for the next few weeks however, and when the bleeding comes back she has her lady’s maid find her a mid-wife in the closest village, ruing the idea of putting herself in the hands of a doctor yet again. The woman that’s brought to her chambers is thought to be a witch by the town’s people, and she certainly matches all the hackneyed phrases ever spoken of sorcerers, her nose disproportionally large, one eye blind and the other seemingly lost in the sight of the skies, her voice roughened by old age yet sharp when everything she speaks feels but like a parody of truth. She has smooth hands, though, and when she places them on the insides of Regina’s thighs she does so with motherly care and a lifetime of experience. Her speech twirls with superstitions as much as it does realities, and Regina suspects that half of it all is an act that the woman puts on for the favor of the villagers, surely prone to believe in the magic of old religion as wielded by a woman both kind and frightening. There isn’t any magic in her, but there is knowledge of herbs and potions, and she makes a concoction of _maca_ and ghee topped with red raspberry leaf that is both vile-tasting and almost immediately relieving, leaving the bloodstream intact but doing away with the pain in gentle strokes.

“Ah, the queen do be a witch, but count on an old hag to know better,” the woman replies when Regina questions her about the drought, one thin and crooked finger tapping her nose with impolite disregard.

Regina inquires then about her state, confessing for the first time as to the damage she’d done to her own body, and as to the reasons her period might have had to return. The woman tells her that her body remains barren, the effects of the potion irreversible, and for that Regina is impossibly relieved; after all, while she’d cried to change what she’d done once, her regret had been as impulsive as her drinking of the potion had been in the first place, and after some time she’d come to be at peace with her decision. If Little Ace had proven something, then that is that Regina is unfit for love. Moreover, even if Regina could find it in herself to bestow nothing but tender affection upon a child, the idea of something growing inside her, clawing away at her belly and stealing her vitality away is usually enough to make her shudder. The memories of her unborn baby remain, the scars of the loss never quite closed and prone to fester at the most desperate of times, and the feeling of being eaten away from the inside lingers just as well.

Whatever the case, the woman insists that an infertile woman isn’t necessarily one who doesn’t bleed, and asserts that the return of her period is but a sign of her body trying to heal itself from the damage done. Regina feels by parts betrayed and mocked, truth be told, and yet can’t help but wonder if the decay that has invaded the palace and her life ever since the death of her little cousin won’t be coming to an end, blood between her legs the first sign of recovery. In any case, she offers the woman a place within the palace, an offer rejected on arguments of having a too old mind to _be changing me liddle life now, Your Majesty_ , but immediately paired with a bow to loyal service whenever it is required from her. She even has the cheek to lecture her on proper nourishment before she leaves, her keen eye easily guessing at Regina’s late choice of liquid diet, and berating her for being a rather unhelpful spirit in the fight of a body that so desperately wants to heal.

Surprisingly enough, the woman’s words shift Regina’s mood away from morose insanity, and even through the discomfort of a swollen body, she takes on the rising days with newfound vitality. She chooses to recover good habits from the past just as well, and finds herself at the shore of her once upon a time favorite lake, remembering the touch of cool and velvety water against her skin, and finding relief in the caress as she once used to. Later, lying down against the humid grass, naked despite the cold, she unwittingly thinks of Maleficent, of her tantalizing figure coming to her at the edge of a different lake, tempting her with a curling finger barely a whisper away from her skin, with eyes that gazed upon her the way fingers touched. She sighs at the thought, and wonders how she got to where she is now, Maleficent’s touch lost to her in the fog of nostalgic disillusionment, and her body so difficult when in someone else’s touch. Her desire for Nubia had been short-lived at best, after all, and her encounters with the huntsman had become a conundrum of lust, hate and disgust that inevitably left bitterness behind, even if momentarily all-consuming. She has been lacking harmony with her body as much as she has with her mind, and she promises herself to find solution to both plights, lest fickleness becomes her ultimate downfall.

Resolute and optimistic, she begins sitting down with father for dinner at least, hoping to regain a bit of appetite in the comfort of shared family meals. Father’s always happy to comply with such requests, and he knows just which kind of food to tempt Regina with just as well. While Regina had opted for warm and heavy dishes to fight the coldness of winter, father brings fresh tomatoes to her table, as well as soft cheese, cold potato salad and green banana fritters, all sweet and clean against her palate, and it seems to Regina as if both the company and the food take her muddled thoughts away. It is by father’s guiding hand, too, that she discovers a shred of hopeful revival, a coy smile like Regina hasn’t seen in years coloring his features with youthful shadows when he drags her to her apple tree late one evening, just as the sun is setting in grey and dark blue hues.

“Daddy, what is it?” she questions, her voice tinkling as if she’s about to laugh, and her breath coming short the moment father pauses right before the tree, motioning for her to look up.

Her poor tree presents her with the same saddened picture of the past few months, waning leaves and a dry-looking trunk, the picture of resignation and defeat. Yet, when Regina follows father’s hand, her eyes widen as they land on their target, one single red apple hanging from between the withering foliage. She smiles as if she were but a child, and soon finds herself conjuring up a stool and climbing over the wooden fence protecting the tree to tear the fruit down, the skin of it smooth and humid with dew when she touches it. She has half a mind to bite into it right then, and yet she stops herself before she does, suddenly wishing to keep it as symbol of resilient strength. It’s so very silly, but after a season of blight, death and schism, she wants to preserve it for a special occasion, whatever that may turn out to be. Perhaps it’ll make a nice gift for Maleficent, whom she has refused to visit since her little cousin’s demise; maybe it should be father who gets it, for if Regina has ever known true warmth, then she owes it to him; but then, perhaps, it should fulfill a completely different purpose. For now, she sets a preservation spell upon it, and then climbs down from her stool, and with a smile adorning her lips, locks her arm with father’s, and pulls him into a slow nightly stroll through the gardens.

 

* * *

 

Newfound purpose in mind and energies replenished after a few days of centering herself, Regina decides to take care of that which has been aggravating her so as of late. After all, wrapping her hands around Snow’s neck might not be a possibility as of today, but there’s much she can do to gain peace of mind and win her concentration back. She has allowed herself to wallow in self-pity for far too long, has let her council guide her in circumstances where she must have her own stance, and it has all led to chaos and wavering tides, her outbursts uncontrolled and born out of desperate dejection. It seems to her foolish now, to play up her part of lording queen outside of her palace’s walls only to succumb to despair once within them, and so she actively chooses to give up on dispiritedness and to do away with the causes of her pain.

The Dark Curse becomes her most immediate concern, fighting its pull and the tendrils of madness it has been threading with her thoughts something akin to a noble pursuit. Ridding the world of its influence and the danger of it falling in the wrong hands feels nigh heroic, so it is with unbidden pleasure that Regina takes on the studious task of saving herself from it. Wading her way through books and ancient spells, she finds contentment in the simple act of research and study, magic always a fascinating subject, particularly when not plagued by Rumpelstiltskin's irksome presence and overbearing nature. Not for nothing had most of her favorite tricks come from personal study, rather than from the imp’s calculated teachings, always held back so as to keep her in a tight leash. Serves him right that his student became an equal, she muses, and perhaps even a far superior deceiver, the woman currently residing in her very own grasp proof enough of her own cunning inspiration.

It occurs to Regina that she’s barely enjoyed that particular triumph of hers, even if her little performance before Rumpelstiltskin speaking of the woman’s demise had been a savory treat at the time. To be fair, she had actually intended for the little lady to break the Dark One’s curse and be done once and for all with the treacherous imp, but she supposes it had been wishful thinking to believe that Rumpelstiltskin would choose to give his power away for something as puny as _love._ And love for a bland and dutiful bore with nothing but a pair of doleful eyes to offer to the world at large. Her name is _Belle,_ for goodness’ sake, and the whole idea of her and her innocent love for such a creature as the Dark One is risible at best. However, Rumpelstiltskin had felt fondness at the least, and after a lifetime of witches and tricks, perhaps he’d seen light where he’d never had any, and had wanted to be the hero of Belle’s tale when he’s only capable of being the villain of everyone else’s. Perhaps he’d simply wanted a pet to groom and mold, and that Regina supposes she can understand far better.

Whatever the case may be, Belle dwells now within Regina’s palace, believed dead to the outside world and waiting for the time when Regina needs ammunition against Rumpelstiltskin. After all, even if his interest in the woman wanes with time, his pride would hardly allow Regina to claim her as weapon and prize. For the time being, Regina suspects Rumpelstiltskin is attached enough to the idea of her so as to be throwing quite the little tantrum. He hasn’t shown his face around Regina’s palace since she lied to him about Belle’s death, and the magical world has also felt his absence, if Regina’s sources are to be believed. The whole ordeal is superbly pleasing, and Regina figures she should take a little more time out of her days to enjoy the little pleasures of her victories.

And other pleasures she shall enjoy as well, something in her recovering energies awakening her appetites for things other than food. Thus, terrorizing her subjects regains its amused flavor, reminding Regina how much frivolous malice against those that slander her with such ease makes her smile with delight. It’s her own fault for deeming her kingdom as thoughtful individuals, when thinking of them all as unruly dolls to maneuver at her will is far more enticing. If she’s to feed and shelter them, after all, then she should be allowed a little fun in exchange, and considering all they have to offer is disrespect and disregard, they can very well deal with becoming entertainment for her wounded heart.

In other regards, it’s the huntsman that provides. They aren’t particularly well-suited for each other, their encounters usually the result of Regina prodding him insistently into action, his lust always a product of violence born of an unfeeling heart. Regina finds perverse satisfaction in the corruption of his otherwise sensitive self. It’s true they have no intimacy, sex between them always a harsh tumble that fails to reach the bed every single time. She finds him too warm, his frame too bony, and his anger most of the time a little lacking, but he always leaves pleasant bruises behind, the disgust painted on his face something of a triumph when Regina is in a good mood. Whether he likes it or not, they have fallen into a dance of sorts, where he resists until Regina’s insinuations touch the right nerve, making him jump at her and dive for her sex, lacking the nerve to lunge at her neck instead. A different man may have killed her by now, but as it is, the huntsman’s instincts seem determined to find in her sentiments that she doesn’t possess. Then again, perhaps Regina is surrounding the whole ordeal with far too much romantic ideals, and the huntsman is simply an incarcerated man with very little to live for, and grasping at the chance to feel heat around his cock. His innermost feelings make no difference to her, however, so long as he provides entertainment whenever her whims are so inclined.

“You’re a monster,” he tells her every time, as if shaping his mouth around the words allows him to forget the craving desire, the way he seems to further imprison himself by giving into her.

It never fails to remind Regina of a mantra of her own, of years spent inside an unwanted embrace repeating the words _I do not wish to lay with you_ as token protest. She’d thrived in Leopold’s discomfort then, in bringing his sins to light since she had no right to deny him. He’d flinched every time, and the simplicity of such awareness had helped Regina survive.

Regina isn’t afraid of her own transgression, has no shame to offer the huntsman when he’s the one to bend under her will and give her what she wants, so he counters his statement with her own just as well, staring right into his eyes every time and murmuring, “What does that make you, my dear?”

Whether it is her fresh perspective or simple luck Regina doesn’t know, but it’s not long before she finds temporary solution to the conundrum of the Dark Curse. Books and ancient scrolls reveal it to be a far more timeworn curse than she had suspected, its origins untraceable and its path often lost, at least until it was put under the watchful guard of a fearsome and immortal demon, its power rooted in the darkest of hearts. How Rumpelstiltskin had managed to steal it from that thing remains a mystery, but it’s hardly important to her, her discoveries relevant when she understands that it is primitive magic what will prove protection and vigilance both for the curse and its dreadful sway. With that in mind, Regina seeks creatures rather than sorcerers, finding beasts and beings thought only to live in books. She finds creatures in the waters of rivers, hidden in the forests and running with the wind, and through pacts and promises brings their protective magic with her to set upon the Dark Curse. Many even offer help in exchange for nothing; an odd man covered in white hair that calls himself a warden of the forests and who insists that _the witch of the apple tree must do what she must_ ; a mystifyingly beautiful kelpie whose voice rings inside Regina’s mind even as its mouth doesn’t move, and who offers to ride eternally by her side if only she pays the price of her soul, and who only bows to her when such offer is refused; a woman of long hair and long nails hiding horrid features under a glamour of enchanting beauty who scratches at Regina’s belly with a smirk painted blood red and only gives her help as a symbol of pity, vehemently laughing at Regina as she speaks that _a woman who isn’t a mother isn’t a woman,_ and who disappears into the waters of a lake before Regina’s fury manages to kill her. It’s a world full of wonders, and for all of its temptations Regina fears it, for she has no wish of becoming a whispering memory of stories told by old tongues and forgotten in yellowed papers, which may just be her destiny if she allows the primordial taste of such magic to mingle with her own, and if she allows Rumpelstiltskin entirely too much freedom, for if she learns something of monsters and angels alike, then that is that they have all crossed paths with the Dark One, and that their lives have only fared worse after such encounters.

The primeval magic does the trick, however, the darkness of the curse palliated as it feeds itself of magic unlike Regina could ever conjure herself. Most creatures showed impenetrable contempt for her and the magic of humans, nothing but a risible ruse in their eyes, born of books and forced through the filter of intellect, unnatural and perverse. Regina had thrown disdain right back at them, even while carefully understanding of their primordial power, of the intoxicating nature of their devilry – there was no craft to their powers, and yet they flowed with imprecise allure, blinding purpose and conquering souls. Had Regina been someone else, she may have succumbed, but not for nothing had she spent hours upon hours under Maleficent’s hands, and had been well-versed in the tantalizing force of primitive magic. It occurs to her, then, that perhaps she should have thought of the witch before, and of the possibility of leaving the curse with her for safekeeping. After all, it wouldn’t affect her with the pounding force it did Regina, and Regina has no doubt her friend wouldn’t feel particularly inclined to take advantage of its powers and turn the world upside down. She has been so terribly despondent towards Maleficent as of late, the memory of her unfailingly bringing Little Ace to mind, and perhaps it’s about time she paid her friend a visit.

However, for the time being, the Dark Curse no longer feels as if it might strip Regina of her sanity, the hollow feeling of it absorbing her life failing to be a pervasive nightmare, and barely becoming a lingering feeling of yearning somewhere at the back of her mind. The curse feels like a punished child might, whimpering away behind doors until its mother chooses to liberate it, and Regina wonders if the way it keeps reminding her of dark cellars and unfair chastisements is but another trick to reach her heart.

 

* * *

 

Spring arrives and with it Regina’s tree grows back into its health, further convincing Regina that it is tied to her, and to whatever magic clouds her domains. It’s not that strange; after all, witches are known to have familiars, and if others have hellish dogs or truculent crows, she doesn’t see why her tree can’t have become just that. While her tree flourishes, so does her army, the news of rebels subdued and skirmishes won coming to her left and right, the Military Advisor commending her prowess and pointing out how her good mood usually translates to victory. There is work to be done yet, however, and so it is that the faint sun of the season sees the palace shrouded in silence, most of Regina’s troops busy elsewhere. It’s not completely unwelcome, particularly when Regina’s breakfast table affords her calm and the company of father, as well as her favorite spiced bread and salty boiled eggs.

What spring doesn’t afford her, however, is the gift of Snow White’s heart. By now, most her council candidly agrees that the princess has become a rather problematic figure, her stance in the eyes of the kingdom threatening all that belongs to them, if not their lives as well. After all, were the princess to tear Regina’s crown away from her, the council’s heads would be the next logical trophy to claim. Regina would dare presume that if the situation were to arise, Snow would readily offer a pardon to those under Regina’s service, but she’s in no hurry to disambiguate her council of the notion that they might be in danger; she wouldn’t want them to give into lethargy, rather preferring their instincts sharp. Dangerous or not, Snow White is a thorn on Regina’s side, the one failure of her rule and the persecuting ghost of tragedies long past but never forgotten. That she’s capable of conquering kingdoms and squashing rebels but remains unable to even grasp the princess’ hair disturbs her peace beyond reason. What is it about the stupid girl that fate seems so adamant in helping her, anyway?

“Look at this,” she complains, a batch of opened letters in her hands and a pouting scowl shaping her features. “Snow White sightings at the border of George’s kingdom; north of the Ogre Valley; traipsing with pirates in the high seas; dead at the edge of the Infinite Forest; hiding in the main village right under my nose! Which is it? Which of these ungrateful subjects has an ounce of truth in their words?”

“ _Cielo,_ try to eat something,” father counters, oblivious to her moods or simply choosing to ignore them, as he has so little power to control them anyway. “It is a lovely morning, _podemos dar un paseo._ ” **(1)**

Regina sinks herself into her chair, her shoulders hunching as she crosses her arms over her chest after dropping the missives into her table and reaching for an uneaten piece of bread instead. It _is_ a fine morning, and the already familiar game of a kingdom that sends fake information her way out of fear at best, and mockery at worst, shouldn’t be reason enough to ruin the soft breeze and pale sun. It would make father happy, too, if she were to forget Snow White for even a short while. She knows it saddens him, both her obsession and that only Snow’s death would palliate it. Regina would despise him for it, and she most certainly is capable of abhorrent behavior when father’s desires so clearly hope for reconciliation with her former step-daughter, but it’s easy to decipher why he might feel as he does. He did see the girl grow up, after all, amused her with soft-spoken stories and cherished her smiles, and Regina knows he has no room in his heart for hatred, despite what little joy life has thrown his way. She wonders, briefly, whether she would have been happier herself had she grown to be more like her father, rather than taking longer steps each day to fill mother’s shadow.

With that thought in mind and unable to hide a grimace, she acquiesces with an easy, “Yes, let’s do that. One more bite, first.”

Both statements prompt father into a big smile, but Regina is already busy both with a piece of bread and grabbing at the one single unopened letter, an urgent missive from King George that arrived two days ago via a rider that passed out right at Regina’s feet, and which she has failed to open for the artless wish of being contrary. George’s latest proclivity for informing her of Prince James’ whereabouts continues to mystify her, whether he hopes her to find a solution to his ordeal or whether he simply wants someone to complain about the poor replacement he got himself in exchange for his actual son an utter mystery, and one which fails to garner Regina’s interests. Perhaps old age has started to affect the severe king, much as it had Leopold on that one last year of his life. Leopold’s lunacy had certainly afforded her a kind of peace, and she wonders if there would be any advantage to be had were George indeed losing his marbles. She has always had a strong liking for his Royal Castle, and wouldn’t be opposed to conquering his lands were the opportunity to arise. She smirks at the thought; alas, it is but wishful thinking, or perhaps an idea for many years ahead. For now, she takes the paper and is only stopped from tearing the seal open by the sudden creaking of her doors parting wide, three of her men running their way into the room and breathlessly standing before her.

It takes a moment for any of the men to speak, and even to look up, the three of them obviously recovering their breaths. Nonetheless, Rivers, first among the group and very recently released from his duty of mirror carrying, works through his heaving gasps enough to mutter a rather expressive, “There was–and then–with the woman–and he stole a sword, too!–And fled!”

Regina lifts an eyebrow once Rivers braves looking at her, and says, “Bravo, dear, but while we wait for you to grade up to full sentences, would someone care to explain what has happened?”

The one to speak this time is by far the youngest of the group of three, a rather new recruit with a handsome face and eagerness written in every single part of his far too straightened up frame. “The huntsman has escaped, Your Majesty. There was another prisoner with him, a woman.”

“That _idiot_ and his useless heroics!” Regina exclaims immediately, rising from her seat and her hunched posture in one single impulsive movement. _Of course_ the huntsman would try and lead Rumpelstiltskin's  beauty to freedom, and of course he would choose to do it just when Regina was enjoying a mildly pleasant morning.

“A search party has been arranged, Your Majesty,” Rivers informs her, his breath regained and his tone unwavering. “Four men on horses.”

“Send a second party. He knows the forests and he’s quicker on his feet,” Regina orders immediately, a headache already pulsing somewhere behind her left brow. “And now tell me just who was guarding the doors that a scrawny weaponless man and a shoeless little lady got past them so easily.”

Rivers and the third silent guard are quick to take a step back, bridging an obvious separation between themselves and the youngest of the group, who stands up valiantly looking forward and at Regina, his chin lowered at just the right angle and no sign of discomfort in his stance despite the obvious tension settled upon his shoulders. He’s far too young, Regina notices, the armor settling about him a little large, as if he were but a kid trying to play grown-up, and she is vaguely reminded of a story about a sick mother and a sister too young to labor.

“It was Peter at the lady’s door, Your Majesty; he was killed by a stolen sword.”

“Your sword, I take it?” Regina questions, even as her eyes look for the weapon, obviously missing.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he readily confesses. “The huntsman ambushed me during a change of guard, and left me out cold on the floor.”

Regina sighs, something bitter tainting the back of her mouth as she looks at the young man before her. She does so hate when they’re such children, when they face her with such bravery and honor even when they know she has no qualms about exacting her punishments. Perhaps her mind would find better rest if she didn’t insist on knowing those prowling the palace and forming her personal guard, but she does have the most terrible tendency of thinking them well-trained dogs that she must pet in exchange for loyalty. Unfortunately, she must reprimand even when she doesn’t wish to do so, and so it is with a swift movement of her hand and a burst of magic that the young guard’s neck cracks, his lifeless body tumbling to the floor ungraciously. _Wasteful,_ she thinks, wrinkling her nose with distaste.

She doesn’t stare at him for long, however, and addresses the other two instead. “Send the body to his family, along with two years’ worth of wages. Tell his sister there is a place for her at the palace if she so wishes, and take care of Peter as well.” Then, feigning disinterest, “As for the prisoners, do make sure they’re returned to me alive.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Rivers intones, hastily ordering the other to help him carry the body, and scrambling away from her and her bedchambers with as much hastiness as their burden allows them.

Once they’re gone, Regina drops her weight back onto her chair, traces of ladylike stances learned long ago gone from her frame as she sprawls carelessly, stooping down so her corset won’t constrict her too much.

“So much for a placid morning,” she whines.

Father has no sympathy to offer her, his usually tight-lipped attitude towards her dealings with her prisoners enough to infer his disapproval on the matter. However, he offers a candid, “Let’s take that walk anyway, my little princess.”

The old moniker rings tender inside Regina’s chest, and she agrees to a short stroll around the garden in the hopes of freeing her mind of greyish thoughts. The mild weather and father’s company make George’s missive completely slip her mind, but the matter of the huntsman’s escape doesn’t leave her thoughts, the lovely shades of flowers blooming in the spring falling short at conquering her senses.

After years of apparent resignation to his fate, the huntsman has been playing the part of desperate prisoner quite well as of late, this attempt at leaving her the third one already in the past year. The first one had been right after Little Ace’s death and his first fall between Regina’s legs, and Regina had allowed him the honor of a proper hunt out of simple curiosity to discover how well he fared in his endeavor. He’d avoided her men, six of them total, for a little over a fortnight, and that had been during drizzly weather that had muddied the roads and made them harder to wade through. There had been no immediate trigger for his second pursuit of freedom, but he’d left two dead men behind, enraging Regina enough that she’d foregone chases and had ordered him back by whispering her words to his heart. She’d seen unbridled fury palpitate within it as she'd held it in her hand, and by the time the huntsman had walked back to the palace by his own two feet, he’d been incesed enough even in his unfeeling state that he’d had Regina pinned to a wall as soon as he’d laid eyes upon her. She’d laughed delightedly all the way through that particular encounter, mocking his rage over its uselessness, and the impulse present in his lust.

Regina always finds something utterly perverse in making demands of a magical heart, though, something about that particular brand of magic curling unpleasant constriction about her own chest. Controlling another living being with such ease does seem to break all rules of nature, ripping hearts out a discipline born out of the darkest of human witchcraft, and using their influence against their owner the worst of sins. Mother had always enjoyed the practice, but most of the hearts Regina has taken through time she’s crushed with near immediacy, and those she’s kept she’s used with clear-cut political purposes, making the huntsman her first and only victim of wretched demands. She wishes to avoid it altogether this time around, hoping that her men manage to succeed where they failed before, and betting all her cards on the huntsman being slowed down by taking Belle along with him in his escape.

It takes her men four days to return her prisoners to her, a rather successful adventure if not for the fact that their state is rather lamentable, clothes torn and faces caked with dirt and blood. She orders the huntsman bathed and sent to her chambers, and Belle she escorts back to her cell herself, a spike of sudden curiosity driving her actions. Regina has her settled in one of the upper chambers of the castle, a wing haphazardly used for privileged prisoners and currently holding only her and the huntsman. Therefore, Belle’s cell isn’t one at all, her abode an spacious chamber with a lovely and big hearth to fight the cold of winter, wide windows high up near the ceiling and the most comfortable cot any prisoner could ever hope to call their own. Belle’s chambers are even filled up to the brim with bounded tomes, fantastical stories and old folk tales hidden amongst their pages. It hadn’t been too long ago that Regina had forbidden storytelling between the palace’s walls, an arbitrary measure if she’s ever executed one, the thought of the forged fancies of literature angering her and filling her with despair in equal measure, the memory of a little cousin that had so enjoyed them one that still persecutes Regina, despite her stubborn determination to forget. Father had lamented the mandate of ridding the palace of such books, however, and so Belle had been recipient of that which Regina wished to obliterate. Many prisoners would wish for such luxuries, but Regina knows that the unbridled hope of being well-treated can be twice as maddening as a more torturous yet faster demise in the coldness of dungeons.

Regina lets Belle sit down on the cot, her shoulders slumped and her eyes closing the moment she’s settled, exhaustion obvious in her thin frame, and a cloud of hopelessness hanging over her head. Regina conjures a fireball and throws it to the fireplace, bringing both light and heat into the room, mildly fascinated that the flashy show of magic fails to elicit any sort of reaction in the woman before her. Has she seen the imp’s magic so often so as to be completely uninterested in it, or is she simply that drained? Whatever the case, it makes Regina lift a curious eyebrow before she makes her way towards the cot, eyeing the brownish linens with distaste before she sits down gingerly, every bit the lady as she straightens her skirts about her. She touches the fabric under her with mild interest, and wonders if there are people out there in the world forced to sleep surrounded by such rough wool.

“Are you going to kill me?” Belle asks her suddenly, opening eyes so blue that Regina is caught off guard for a brief moment. She truly is so very beautiful.

“Don’t be foolish, dear, you would be dead already.”

Belle says nothing in return, but her eyes remain fixed upon Regina’s, her gaze insolent in its insistence. Regina studies her face, most of her skin hidden away behind caked mud, and blood pouring from a cut on her eyebrow staining the side of her face, fresh red mixing with dark brown. Regina conjures up a bowl of water and a white cloth, her fingers delicate when she reaches for Belle’s chin so as to keep her still. Her hand travels to the hard shape of her jaw, resting there as she makes Belle tilt her face to the side before pressing the damp cloth against the open wound on her eyebrow. Belle flinches at the first touch, but Regina cleans blood and dirt with patience and care, the skin she reveals flushed red. Belle feels too warm, perhaps even feverish, and Regina can’t help but smirk when she unwittingly leans into Regina’s touch, seeking the cool feeling of her smooth fingers. She wonders, briefly, if Rumpelstiltskin would hate her more if she were to seduce his precious noble lady. It wouldn’t be difficult, Regina muses, not with this woman that speaks in fairytales and dreams of heroes hiding under the faces of monsters. Regina would have to be kind, though, patient in her endeavor, and she’s not particularly inclined towards kindness or patience these days.

Belle’s unwavering gaze provokes her, however, its steadiness intrusive, and Regina thinks she can guess at Rumpelstiltskin’s reasons for loving this woman, even if doing so with a wretched heart. Her eyes lack fear as well as judgment, and isn’t that what every dark creature secretly craves? Regina figures it must be naiveté on Belle’s part, and yet she can’t help but feel the lightness of her as a near tangible aura. No wonder Rumpelstiltskin would prefer her over his usual brand of woman, despicable and treacherous in nature, much like himself. No wonder he would fumble and blush under the beaconing blue gaze of this tame little girl full of hopeful words. And yet, hadn’t Regina been just as hopeful and mild when they’d first met? Hadn’t she been a little girl desperate to escape an imposed fate? Hadn’t she been _good_? The thought blisters, unkind.

Regina lets go of Belle with none of the delicacy of her previous touches, rather tightening her fingers about her flesh for a too long moment before she pushes her face away, forcing her eyes aside. By the time Belle’s gaze returns to her, Regina is standing up and away, arms crossed loosely over her stomach and hands holding her elbows, as if seeking denied comfort. She refuses to be jealous of this bland thing of a woman, though, refuses to be the demon in Rumpelstiltskin’s life while Belle becomes the angel, opposing her in every way. Her anger slips past Belle and goes straight to the thought of the imp, though, the tricking creature who forces them to be nothing but two sides of his game, who makes them regard each other as little else but an extension of himself.

All of a sudden, Regina regrets having stepped into this chamber at all, having touched soft skin and stared into blue eyes. She scoffs, despondent when she flicks her wrist and conjures up a tub of warm water and a fresh set of clothing for the muddied girl, one last act of undeserved kindness that she’s quick to punctuate with her next words.

“Next time you try to escape, I will take away your books.” Then, with a hand twirling the air dismissively and a satisfied curl to her smile, “I will also cut your tongue. To begin with.”

Belle blinks owlishly at her, disappointedly unaffected by the threat as she reaches up and towards her own chin, touching the spot where Regina’s own hand had rested not seconds before. She appears stunned, but her voice rings clear when she dismisses Regina’s words and instead questions, “What am I doing here? If it’s not my death you wish for…” she trails off, her countenance more intrigued than threatened, something of the graceful and curious woman she’d spied through her mirror present even under layers of dirt and tiredness.

Regina bites at the right side of her lower lip, unwittingly betraying doubt in the gesture. There are hardly any reasons to hide the truth, and even as she owns nothing to this woman, she can’t help but confess, “You are here to pay for Rumpelstiltskin’s sins.” Then, with a sudden and bitter bark of laughter that shakes her shoulders uncomfortably, she muses, “Sometimes, I think that is what we are all doing.”

Regina leaves the cell feeling discomfited, and putting all her efforts in forgetting the past few minutes entirely, deciding then and there that Belle will from now on be nothing but the vestiges of revenge trapped behind a door, forgotten by all and buried away by fabricated death. The resolution settles and yet bitterness lingers, so that when Regina enter her bedchambers to find her second prisoner standing by her bed with a scowl painted between his brows she has to bite back a groan. She has half a mind to send him back to his cell just as well and be done with him, but she doesn’t. Instead, she circles his straight and unmoving frame, wrinkling her nose at the state of his fine clothing and the marks of blood making his shirt stick to the skin of his torso.

“Strip,” she orders, standing before him like the perfect picture of an audience looking forward to a prepaid show.

Surprisingly enough, he doesn’t fight the orders, removing his clothes with jerky movements that have him standing naked before her in little to no time, his garments now no better than torn rags crumpled at their feet. He stares at her when he’s done, defiance that Regina has learned to delight herself with in his light blue eyes. He smells of sweat, mud and forest, and yet he’s still attractive, his chest rising and falling in rapid beats with his breathing ragged out of sheer indignation, his hands lazily resting by his sides, as if refusing to cover his sex is the ultimate act of provocation. His chest is marked by time spent deep within the forest, small and shallow cuts marring his skin, the thickest breaking the skin right above his right nipple. It looks fresh still, and Regina can’t help herself from reaching forward and cupping her hand around it, a clean breath of magic closing the wound with ease. Her eyes settle upon the newly healed skin, but when she motions towards a second cut, the huntsman stops her movement by wrapping his hand tightly about her wrist.

Regina lifts her gaze to his, and he answers her silent question by spitting, “Don’t use your magic on me.”

Regina scoffs, yanking her arm back until he’s let go of her, and then making a show of rubbing the reddish skin with an annoyed pout. Dismissively, she says, “Suit yourself, dear.”

She moves around him and towards her bed, sitting down at the edge with hefty gracelessness and looking about herself as if trying to decide what to do next. There’s a pile of letters to be read right at her bedside table, George’s unopened yet urgent missive resting at the top of it, and perhaps she should get to that once and for all. She reaches out for them, while spying the huntsman out of the corner of her eye, moving to face her, his nudity still somewhat tempting despite his sullenness.

Sighing, she looks up at him, considering, and tells him, “As entertaining as this new hankering for freedom of yours has been, you have to promise to be good now, won’t you, darling pet? That’s three men you have killed already, and twice you have forced my hand to finish others. And that poor girl, giving her false hope.”

He snorts at her words, almost yelling when he says, “Forced your hand? Is that what you tell yourself to sleep better at night?”

She blinks up at him, already tired of the judgmental look present in his eyes. It’s one of those days, then, when the entertainment he provides fails to compensate for his arbitrary snubs. It’s these kinds of days that Regina despises him to the point of considering killing him once and for all, and putting them both out of their misery, for he dares clothe himself with contempt and superiority when in truth he’s the worst of hypocrites. Whether he beds her out of rage or desire, the truth of the matter remains, and if he’s to throw judgment for what they are to each other, then he should do so at himself just as well. She doesn’t have the energy for this today, not after the discomfort of her visit to Belle, but her discouragement inspires her towards punishment, and so it is with a smirk and a sly look thrown towards the huntsman’s discarded clothes that she chooses to dismiss him.

“Get out, now. Rivers is just outside and dying to escort you back to your cell.”

The huntsman eyes her with consideration, perhaps fearing retaliation if he turns her back on her. He’d probably expected to be met with anger, and Regina’s flippant mood may have just failed to fulfill his fantasy of a confrontation. He knows by now she’s not one to strike at someone’s back when she would much rather gloat to their face, so he moves to recover his clothes with limbs that betray fatigue.

He’s just about to step into his torn breeches when Regina declares, “I don’t quite recall giving an order to dress yourself.”

There’s sharpness in the gaze he settles upon her, eyes closed at half mast that only further the joy present in Regina’s smirk. Nonetheless, he says nothing, accepting his punishment with as much grace as a man in the nude may possess, and throwing his ragged clothing back to the floor and at her feet, a sacrifice to an unyielding and cruel god. Then, he simply turns around and steps away from her chambers, her sudden laughter following him while River’s barely concealed snort receives him just outside her door. It will do him well, to remember where he stands. Her men will be equally pleased, the favor that she has seemingly bestowed upon the huntsman a thorn for men that have sworn their loyalty but have no place within her bed.

Regina’s laughter dies quickly, her demeanor by parts amused but still disgruntled by the events of the past few days. She chooses to chase her ghosts away, to put an end to unwanted feelings ignited by prisoners she shouldn’t bother herself with, and so she goes back to her unopened letters. Reaching forward, she takes George’s dismissed letter once more, certain that the Military Advisor will be on her case anyway if she continues to pay attention to other seemingly unimportant matters.

“Bring me some good news, dear George,” she murmurs to her empty room as she tears the seal open, hoping for a battle to soothe her bloodlust, or perhaps for an invite to a ball where she can cause discomfort with nothing but her presence.

George’s words elicit a groan from her the moment she begins reading, another unimportant tale regarding his son’s whereabouts imprinted on the page. She’s just about ready to give up on reading the whole thing when the detail of Snow White’s name catches her eye, George’s swirling handwriting suddenly opening up a whole world of possibilities, a tale of passionate yet forbidden love taking shape in a speech severe and lacking embellishments. Because if Prince James has run away from his wedding, then he’s done so in pursuit of his true love, the princess turned bandit Snow White, and if he’s done so then it is only because his love is welcomed and returned in kind, Snow’s venture into George’s palace proof enough of impassioned feelings. Both on the run, Midas angered over his daughter being snubbed, George equally furious and bereft of mercy for his false son, and yet Regina’s heart pounding hard against her chest, the wheels inside her head turning with determination, lessons learnt long ago burning under her skin, for Snow White has boasted strengths for as long as Regina’s known her, but now she has fallen in love, and if there is one lesson branded on Regina’s flesh with fire hot irons then that is that love is weakness, and by that weakness, Snow White shall fall.

 

* * *

 

The first thing Regina notices upon her arrival at Maleficent’s fortress, is that she’s redecorated. Gone are the plushy, old couches that used to face the fire, the faded browns of them and the fabric thinned by age that had barely kept together substituted by a set of tall and dark chairs that look about as comfortable as they probably are, which is not at all. They look imposing, like something Regina might have chosen herself for one of the grand halls at the palace, the ones she only ever uses when her guests require a heavy dose of superiority, and in Maleficent’s abode, drafty yet oddly comforting for her, they unsettle her.

The second thing isn’t so much confounding as it is annoying, Maleficent’s naked body wedged between two equally disrobed women on her bed not a sight she would have ever chosen to be witness to. They had tried once, inviting a third party to their bed. As it turns out, Regina isn’t particularly good at sharing, a fact that the maiden that had joined them briefly had discovered once she’d found herself transported to the barren lands surrounding Maleficent’s fortress by a wave of uncontrolled magic. Regina has every intention of flicking her wrist and sending these two away just as well, but a burst of sudden fire burning her fingers stops her from even trying.

“Ow!” she complains, shaking said fingers and fixing a disapproving gaze upon Maleficent, now propped on her elbows and staring at her through eyes full of mirth.

“Be nice,” Maleficent reprimands, laughter painting her tone even as she shakes her two companions awake and proceeds to shoo them away.

The two of them, girls more than women, scurry off in a flurry of naked limbs and untied clothing, made all the more urgent by Regina’s glare settled upon them. Maleficent pays the whole ordeal no mind, instead pushing herself up and away from the bed and pulling a heavy robe over her shoulders before wrapping herself up completely in the thick fabric. It had been a gift from Regina, once upon a time, and Maleficent hadn’t thanked her for it, but had worn it often.

“And just what brings you here this lovely afternoon?” Maleficent questions, her hands steady as she pours two goblets of whatever drink she’s finding herself fancying these days. She slides herself closer to Regina, steps slow and eyes heavy-lidded as they rest over her, and offers her a cup.

Regina takes the offering, and not quite sure why, she deflects the question. “They get younger the older you get, dear. Don’t you find little girls to be disappointing?”

Maleficent chuckles, and when she reaches for Regina’s chin and fails to grasp it at her first try, Regina realizes that she must be a little drunk still. Not a particularly odd state for Maleficent, her unsteadiness is but momentary, and soon she’s curling cool fingers against Regina’s jaw, the touch shaping its way into a caress against her cheek. Her free cheek receives a sloppy and warm kiss, too, and Regina closes her eyes at the onslaught of bayberry wine scented breath and smooth skin.

“You were a little girl once, too.”

There’s no bitterness to the statement, and yet it feels like a slap to her face. If Maleficent wants her to feel replaceable then she’s hit just the right sore spot. Regina isn’t particularly inclined towards hostility, though, not today of all days; she has a feeling that every insult ever conceived couldn’t take the prospect of happiness away from her. Thus, she ignores whatever gloominess has taken over Maleficent today and just follows her to her newly acquired chairs, doing her best at accommodating herself into one of them, an uncomfortable task at best. The seats are too short and the wood at her back digs uncomfortably into her shoulders. She squirms, and finds that the only way of keeping herself mildly comfortable and of not being to choked to death by her own corset is forcing her back straight and keeping her legs crossed, her weight leaning on the one arm that she presses to that of the chair’s. Maleficent looks about as uncomfortable as she does, her position being forced into ladylike like grace discomfiting when she’s always been such a fan of slouching and sprawling.

“Whatever happened to your old settees?” Regina questions, laughter in her words.

Maleficent groans, her hand claw like when she reaches up to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Cru and her dogs – _don’t_ ask.”

“Now see what keeping unsavory company does to you.”

Maleficent _tsks_ at her as reprimand, and fails to look at her when she murmurs, “You broke more than a pair of old chairs, so do refrain from lecturing me on the company I keep, my darling.”

Regina licks her lips, avoiding a near gasp. Maleficent’s accusation surprises her, confessions that they’ve never made before tangled with her words, speaking of the rejection Regina had issued so long ago, one dark night inside her bedchambers. She wonders at whatever may have Maleficent’s mood so sour, and realizes how little she wants to deal with it, however selfish the feeling makes her. If a confrontation is forthcoming then Maleficent stops it just as quick as she’d apparently started it, however, leaning sideways and into Regina’s space so she can clink their goblets together into an unasked for toast. They both drink, and Regina begs the wine to steal away the brief sharpness of the moment.

Goblet empty and senses focused on the purpose of her visit, Regina takes Maleficent’s truce and, fingers tapping away at the wooden arm of the chair, she says, “I have a business proposal.”

Maleficent laughs, turning keen eyes on her, her interest obviously piqued even as she answers on the negative, saying, “We don’t do business. You have the rest of the magical world for that.”

“But I want to make a deal, and only you have what I want.”

Maleficent huffs, a snap of fingers filling up both goblets yet again, even when hers rests unmoving and clutched in a tight grip. Her tone is far more direct when she next speaks, as if she’s just woken up from a hazy dream. “I know the Dark One has been out of commission for a while, but I didn’t think you would be the one to take up the mantel.”

Regina huffs, increasingly annoyed by the visit and her friend’s moodiness. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she snaps.

“Fine, I’ll humor you. What could the almighty Evil Queen desire from this humble servant?”

Regina ignores the pointed sarcasm with a roll of her eyes, avoiding expanding this conversation forever by simply asking for what she wants. “Your sleeping curse,” she counters, and when Maleficent raises a questioning eyebrow, she elaborates with, “It seems that my princess has found a prince, and if she wishes to keep him alive, then she’ll have to take a bite of this.”

Regina twirls her hand in the air and a red apple appears between her fingers, the preservation spell set upon it keeping it fresh-looking and tempting, promising crisp skin and flesh. The one piece fruit that had survived an autumn of rot, and as soon as Regina had learnt of Snow’s fall into the abyss of love she’d known it’d be the proverbial instrument of her demise. A symbol of Regina’s strength to finally defeat her most ancient enemy.

“Provided the right poison, of course,” Regina says, a smirk marring her lips when Maleficent can’t help but smile, the deviousness of revenge obviously something that speaks to her innermost spirits, even if she enjoys playing up her disinterested disapproval on the matter of Regina and Snow White.

“An apple? Really?”

“Every story needs a memorable detail, wouldn’t you agree?”

Maleficent snorts, her eyes shining with mischief. “Every story needs an ending, my darling, and yours with your princess has been a long time coming. Apple, spinning wheel; pick your poison, but end it once and for all.”

“You disapprove.”

“I have never encouraged your obsession.”

It’s not quite an answer and most certainly not acceptance, but then Regina has never needed Maleficent’s authorization or support in matters regarding Snow White. She knows for a fact Maleficent would have had her quitting her endeavors years ago in exchange for peaceful oblivion. Maleficent doesn’t persecute the issue anymore, though, instead looking at her pointedly until she has regained her full attention – an easy task, Maleficent’s allure always commanding regard where Regina is involved, never mind the years that pass through them.

“And what exactly am I getting in exchange?” she questions, a smile curving her lips as if ready to make fun of whatever answer Regina may provide.

Regina doesn’t give a verbal answer, instead snapping her fingers. A small cloud of purple smoke reveals a box, as enigmatic in its contents as the magic within it allows it to be, which is none at all. Immediately, the wide, drafty chamber around them, always cold no matter the burning fires, feels entirely too warm, the presence of dark magic hefty on both their frames. Every single protection spell she has ever known wrapped around it, and yet the magic of the Dark Curse palpitates inside the box resting between her hands, a siren call to Regina’s senses that forces her to close her eyes and breathe in slowly, long, harsh breaths to remind herself of her own body, to ground herself in the here and now.

“He gave it to you,” Maleficent says next to her, and in that moment, her voice comes as if she’s standing at the other side of the room and there’s a world of obstacles in between them. “You’ve always been his favorite, I suppose.”

There’s surprise and awe in Maleficent’s voice, and something that might just be affronted jealousy, but Regina barely registers it. She hasn’t held the curse this close since Rumpelstiltskin gave it to her, and now she remembers the exact reasons why she has chosen to stay away all this time. It wants her, desperately, deliciously; it wants to eat her whole and Regina is inclined to let it do just that. But then, suddenly, there are hands, familiar and firm as they slide against her own, long fingers wrapped around those that she has tensed about the box, holding onto it in a brutal claw-like grip. Regina breathes out, and a whimper that might just be her own follows, the feel of Maleficent’s cold hands against her own making a brave effort at bringing her back to her senses. Even so, when Maleficent tries to disengage her from the box, Regina pulls back with harsh limbs, unwilling to let it go. _No,_ she wants to scream, _it belongs to me, it wants me, it’s my destiny,_ and the thought swirls inside her head as magic swirls about her hands, tingling with aggression and delight, ready to protect her possession by any means necessary.

The fighting stance doesn’t deter Maleficent, but rather spurs her on, bringing her lips down until they’re pressed against Regina’s forehead, the touch too determined to be just a kiss. The chill of Maleficent’s lips is refreshing, however, and it becomes a contrast when the witch’s magic comes out to play, burning when the touch of her skin is cold. Regina breathes in the feel of primitive magic, and it scorches her insides, from the tip of her taut fingers and around her rigid spine, travelling down her chest and settling low on her belly, blazing there like molten lava. Regina moans, unbidden, and in the next instant the pressure lifts, both the dark magic of the curse and Maleficent’s own evaporating and fading away, leaving nothing behind but the taste of burnt wood at the back of her throat and an uncomfortably tight feeling spreading from her abdomen to the apex of her thighs.

“What did you do?” Regina whispers, her voice raspy and struggling to come out in between breathless pants, and yet awed at whatever sort of protective magic Maleficent has just performed.

Maleficent laughs near her face, both the sound and her breathing tinkling with ease, resting against Regina’s senses like the most soothing of balms. “I still know a little more than you do about a few things.”

Regina opens up her eyes, and the movement is unhurried, sluggish, her lids heavy and fighting her all the way. The look she finally manages to bestow upon Maleficent is glazed over, almost drunk, and Regina realizes that her skin is sweaty and her mouth dry. She licks her lips, dizzy but not nauseous, and unwittingly reaches out for her discarded goblet, the warm wine enough to freshen up a tight throat. She feels as if she’s been running for miles on end, and about as turned on as if she’d spent the last few hours being teased on someone’s bed just as well. It’s a little overwhelming but she doesn’t fight it, instead reaches out and rests a hand on Maleficent’s shoulder, steadying herself with the feel of rich yet tattered fabric under her fingers. Maleficent is kneeling between her legs by now, the movement that had settled her there completely lost to Regina’s woozy senses, but when the witch begins disentangling her fingers from her grip on the box, she doesn’t oppose her.

“It has been driving you insane, hasn’t it, my darling?” Maleficent questions.

Regina nods absent-mindedly, thankful that her senses seem to be finally settling and that Maleficent is so close to her, tangible, warm and soothing right between her legs, her forearms resting over Regina's thighs as she pries her fingers one by one away from the box. Finally liberated of the burden, Regina’s breath hitches when Maleficent lifts the lid of the box and makes the sphere containing the curse disappear with a flicker of her hand. She has the briefest moment of doubt, of wanting to take back that which she has freely given, but with the magical influence gone, she notices she has no particular need other than perhaps that which palpitates between her legs. Fleetingly, the understanding that she is completely freed from the Dark Curse’s pull for the first time in months hits her, and the breath that catches on her throat threatens to turn itself into a sob. Regina doesn’t let it, swallowing against the constricting pain gripping her throat and lowering her head so she can reach back and press nimble fingers to the back of her neck, where the hum of the curse had settled the moment it had come into her possession, and has only now just left. She finds her hair plastered to her skin by sweat, and has the sudden desire of taking a long, leisurely nap, her yearning for rest only defeated by the throbbing between her legs. That Maleficent is mindlessly dragging blunt fingernails up and down the inside of her thighs is honestly not helping matters much.

With a voice raspy still, and breathing that refuses to calm down completely, Regina wonders, “What did you just do to me, witch?” There’s no accusation in her voice, but rather amusement, or at least whatever little of it she can muster in between confusion and desire.

“Honestly, my darling, if magic like that doesn’t get you going, you’d have to be dead,” Maleficent counters, smart fingers inching their way higher and right where Regina needs them. “Would you like a little help?”

“It _is_ the least you can do, considering.”

The heel of Maleficent’s hand comes to rest between her legs, the press of it against the inseam of her leather pants digging the fabric into her flesh deliciously, and stealing a garbled complaint out of her, words lost inside incomprehensible sound at the sudden hitch of pleasure. Maleficent is all smirks and pride when Regina settles half-lidded eyes upon her, and the look suits her far better than gloom detachment, makes her all the more beautiful.

Maleficent’s hands make quick work of one her boots then, throwing Regina’s leg over her shoulder so she can make her way towards Regina’s waist and claw away at the cords holding her pants together. Regina hears ripping, but can’t find it in herself to care when the promise of Maleficent’s touch has her limbs quivering with need. Careless tugs free the one leg and leave the leather fabric hanging halfway down the other, and Regina gasps the moment the air touches her nakedness, every inch of her skin matching the heat of her sex. She’s dripping wet, moisture touching her inner thighs and glistening on dark curls, a sight that Maleficent finds herself so ostensibly enamored with that she seems in no hurry at all to actually do something about it. Regina whines, needy.

“Patience, now,” Maleficent scolds, her lips still curved into a smile and breath ghosting Regina’s skin.

“Mal, I swear, I will _set you on fire_ if you don’t–”

Her speech is cut abruptly by a yelp when Maleficent hooks both hands under her knees and pulls, dragging her down until she’s at the edge of the seat and uncomfortably slouched against it, the rigid wood at her back unforgiving. The whalebone of her corset digs at her in the most uncomfortable places, but whatever soreness may come from this is made worthy by Maleficent throwing her leg over her shoulder once again, and in the same motion plunging two fingers deep inside Regina, her folds wet enough that they offer no resistance. Regina grunts at the intrusion, wanting to follow it with her own hips but stopped from doing so by the awkward position and by Maleficent holding on to her with her unparalleled strength. It hardly matters, though, not when she’s quivering already at the heat climbing up her skin like the most delicious shot of bourbon, her cunt the center of an onrush of pleasure.

Maleficent’s free hand wanders, and the touch is nearly inconsequential against the mounting satisfaction of her fingers curled inside her, too soft to be of notice until Maleficent finds the shadows of finger-shaped old bruises and presses right onto them, making Regina’s skin pound under her hand. Regina gasps and squirms, an instinctual yet futile attempt at getting away making her try to find  purchase. She finds the arm of the seat and Maleficent’s hair, and both her hands curl with the same tension, her fingers pulling at loose strands with barely a sigh of strength. Maleficent eases up on the pressure against the bruises and instead drags her fingers inside her with more intent, so Regina’s chest heaves with a pleased mewl this time. Maleficent knows how to play her so very well, and Regina suddenly wishes she hadn’t found bruises left behind by the huntsman’s hands, a lover so beneath her and so unlike Maleficent that the whole thing takes on a perverse and shameful tint, however fleetingly.

Maleficent shushes her thoughts away, though, her mouth following the path of her fingers and finding Regina’s clit with wet and warm lips. The first touch is soft, but after a grunt and Regina wrapping her legs about Maleficent’s head, holding herself on her shoulders and hovering dangerously away from the seat, Maleficent gives up on slow gentleness and works her tongue against Regina with equal precision to her fingers, smiling against her only after she’s managed to reduce Regina to little more than a string of breathy moans and a puddle of sensation. It hasn’t been like this for ages, all trembling limbs and overly sensitized her skin, her senses overwhelmed with whirls of heat and pleasure building steadily up. And up and up they go, Regina’s orgasm so strong that she nearly knocks herself out when the back of her head crashes against the back of the chair.

There’s laughter helping her come down from her high, throaty and warm, as well as curling fingers leaving her insides little by little, refusing to completely disappear from between still tightening walls. Regina smiles, still blissed out by sensations, and only moves back a little so her ass isn’t hanging completely in the air.

“These are some terrible chairs,” she complains, breathless but smiling.

She reaches down impulsively, and when she finds Maleficent’s face, she cups her cheeks and kisses her, her tongue searching for the lingering taste there, and fingers already planning on wandering down and inside Maleficent’s robe. Entrance is denied however, the wet sound of their breaking kiss the end of Maleficent’s presence invading her space, for the witch stands up and walks away towards a table, her hands already busy with something other than Regina’s skin by the time Regina has been made aware of the separation. Regina frowns but says nothing, refusing to beg for that which hasn’t been offered, and instead aiming her efforts at putting her clothing back on, even if the rip on the left leg of her pants have made them useless. Of that, she doesn’t complain, having given up on Maleficent respecting her garments many years ago.

Maleficent comes back to her eventually, and standing next to her, she dangles a vial right before Regina’s eyes. Regina smiles, reaching up for it with loosened limbs, and blinks owlishly when Maleficent takes it away at the last moment and she finds her fingers wrapped around empty air. She says nothing, not when Maleficent keeps the vial in sight and moves to sit next to her, everything about her long and languid as she gracefully stills. Such beauty, and yet, for a single instant, it seems to Regina that her friend is older than she’s ever been. She has a feeling that she’s about to be lectured, and she wonders if the pleasure offered, a rare occurrence between them these days, hasn’t been a clever way of leaving her lethargic and slow.

“You know he gave you that curse for a reason,” Maleficent says, reaching out for Regina’s hand and resting her own on top of it, as if placating her even before she can snap.

Regina shrugs, disinterested in the Dark Curse now that she knows it to be safeguarded by hands that won’t be tempted by it. Moreover, with Maleficent’s sleeping curse beautifully mixed with her apple, Snow White will cease to be a problem, and there will be no use for a curse so dark that it must have been made only for the most desperate.

“He wants me to cast it, of course,” she intones. “He should know better by now; I have never been good at following orders.”

“It wants you, Regina, and magic like that…” Maleficent’s voice lingers, and so do her eyes, sharp blue orbs that settle upon Regina’s features, as if looking at her for the first time. Maleficent moves forward, her fingers forming a soft curl as they near Regina’s face, and Regina leans closer too, moth to a flame. She’s flushed still, and when Maleficent’s fingers land on the hot skin of her cheek she can’t help but smile, the touch cool and gentle, the thumb that Maleficent presses to the corner of her eye pleasantly rough.

“What, Mal, what is it?”

“I would have given you my curse if you had simply asked for it, you know that, right?”

Regina shrugs a single shoulder, unsure. Her relationship with Maleficent has been a collection of meetings swimming in between affection and sourness for the past few years, and she finds it hard to trust anyone when her own feelings seem to betray her with such ease these days.

“The only reason I’m taking the Dark Curse from you is because you’re insane enough to cast it.”

Regina bristles at Maleficent’s words, and the tension it brings must be noticeable, for Maleficent tightens her fingers about her wrist when moments before they’d been resting on her hand.

“You know it’s the only reason you’re giving it to me, Regina, so stop telling yourself whatever lies you’re justifying this with.”

Regina licks her lips, and finds that her heart is pulsing hard against her ribcage, her eyes wide as they stay locked within Maleficent’s gaze. “It’s mine to cast,” she croaks, the words climbing their way from deep within her gut, terse and with a mind of their own, painful as they take shape between her lips.

“I know it is,” Maleficent agrees, a hint of a pained smile lifting the corner of her lips. “Just as I know that you will come back for it one day, and that I will do anything in my power to keep you away from it.”

The bluntness of the confession hits her with the sharpness of a blade twisting itself inside her chest, such adamant certainty in the prediction that Regina finds herself unable to laugh it away, even if that’s just what she intends to do. Maleficent doesn’t know that, _can’t_ know that, and yet her unwavering eyes seem to defy Regina to try and deny a truth written in stone. Unable to grasp denial, Regina does the next best thing.

“If the time comes, my dear old friend, then I will do what I must.”

“Yes, I’m afraid you will.”

Emotion tingles at the back of Regina’s head, pressing hefty fingers against her eyebrows and threatening the corners of her eyes with unwanted tears. By the time Maleficent kisses her, lips firm yet soft, a tear has carved itself a path down her cheek.

 

* * *

 

The blind witch steals her poisoned apple, and while Regina refuses to throw a tantrum over the matter, she does promise retaliation of the worst kind. How the insane and crippled lunatic managed to get ahold of anything of hers at all remains a mystery, but Regina suspects Rumpelstiltskin’s slippery hands, his moping apparently over as news of deals made and payments exacted begin flooding the magical world all over again. Whatever the case, the witch has an impenetrable gingerbread house and a taste for children’s flesh, and so Regina sees herself handling ungrateful children that fail to recover her precious apple by virtue of being tempted by buttercream and chocolate. If Regina saves them once they fail then it is only because she refuses to feed the witch, and if the Infinite Forest keeps seeing its population growing then it’s because some retaliation must be paid by her most useless of minions – honestly, how hard can the instruction _don’t touch the food_ be to follow?

Frustration follows her wherever she goes, it seems, the prince she needs to fulfill her plan missing still, even with three armies following his steps, both George and Midas having joined her efforts in recovering Snow White’s lover. Regina has no patience for it all, not for witches or princes or kings, and most certainly not for children, her senses running faster than the world around her now that Snow White’s demise feels like a certainty, rather than a possibility. Nearly fourteen years they have danced about this inevitable ending, and Regina is much too tired of waiting, every fiber of her being craving the sight of Snow willingly tumbling to the ground to save her foolish prince. Alas, she has no apple and no prince, and so she’s left spending her days pacing about her rooms, incapable of finding concentration or care for anything other than Snow’s prompt journey towards eternal slumber.

Spring has passed its baton to summer, and so the days are long and warm, light lingering for hours that stretch on end, teasing Regina into restless hours of sleep and growing irritation. If she has any room for thoughts other than those about Snow, then it’s Maleficent that comes to the forefront of her mind, reflections on her accompanied by impossible and weary melancholy. They had said their goodbyes only after falling silently into bed, as if there were no words that could encompass the sense of rupture that had settled over their shoulders with vulture-like severity. Maleficent had been so certain that their future held nothing but confrontation between them that Regina finds herself wondering if she’d seen such a thing prophesized by the touch of her unicorn. They had always been an odd mixture of friends and lovers, after all, and it seems to Regina that to assume a future that counts them as enemies is absurd. Whatever the case may be, as she’d slid warm hands over Maleficent’s skin, she’d felt as if they were finally giving answer to their _what if’s_ and _might have been’s_ , and that the answer had been _no_. Regina endeavors to banish the thoughts, however, deciding that she will visit her friend once her revenge on Snow has finally been exacted, and will erase ideas of gloomy times to come.

One day rolls into the next, and every morning Regina awakens with the belief that she’s living but the beginning of the end. The members of her council find themselves dealing with a queen of flighty thoughts and easily distracted spirit, whose hand only becomes harshest by the day, her focus, when it comes back to her, ruthless in the face of a rebellion that refuses to be quelled. Her Military Advisor questions her well-being, and so does father, both close enough to her to spy the change of her demeanor, her absent-mindedness coupled with a near urgency present in her every word and every move. It is her lady’s maid who bears the brunt of her fickleness, though, her hands full with a queen that forgets to eat and fails to care, that fights bleeding cramps with copious amounts of wine, and who mumbles her way through capricious demands that she later forgets having issued.

Regina can’t confess the truth, though, can’t wrap her tongue around words of woes of the past and wounds that still palpitate under her skin, for the closer her vengeance, the deeper her pain. If she’d thought her injuries closed then she’s been wrong all these years, the thoughts of Snow’s eyes closing forever dragging along the bruises of the past, lacerations cured sloppily, sewn together by threads of grief turned anger, of obsession turned lunacy. The revelations crowd at the tip of her tongue, however, waiting for her confessor. And if anyone is due to hear the truth, then that is Princess Snow White, whose greedy little hands had taken hold of Regina’s life the moment they had met, and hadn’t let go yet.

Regina wears Daniel’s ring about her neck these days, the weight of it as it rests between her breasts a reminder of the past as much as it is a promise for the future. Once, it had been a promise of happiness, of boundless love and a simple life, and now it must be nothing but a pact forged with fire and blood, a pledge of taking one life in exchange for the one that was stolen so long ago. Hardly a steep price to pay, for Daniel’s death had only paved the path for wasteful destruction, for the ripping away of everything and everyone Regina has dared to love.

By the time Regina has recovered her apple and trapped her prince, the winds of autumn have begun drifting their way into the solitary palace, and Regina has paid the fare for her prizes ten times over, with her sanity and her grief. Her sanity she has given to open wounds of the past; her grief, however, had been the reward of two children now lost, a sweet and foolish little boy, and a girl with steel in her eyes and the stance of a queen. What an heir Gretel would have made, and how easily Regina’s thoughts had flowed, her heart beating for a child to mold, a child to teach, a child to turn into her very own queen, free to love whoever she pleased, warmed by the love of a brother who would be companion but never rival, respected by virtue of following the Evil Queen’s line. Rejected, the traitorous hand of loneliness had gripped Regina's chest, and so the children had been made to pay just as well, their destiny to forever wander.

Nonetheless, the price has been paid, and so Regina has what she needs - an apple, resilient, lonely and poisoned, and a princess’ heart, weakened by love.

 

* * *

 

The day after, Regina sleeps. If the world around her is turning on its axis, relearning itself after changes unpredicted, or moving forward with relentless perseverance Regina doesn’t care, for Princess Snow White sleeps, and so, the Evil Queen rests.

Regina had thought she’d be nervous, or perhaps even doubtful, facing Snow White in an open field after so many years of persecution making her question every purpose, every moment that had brought them both there. She’d prepared for such an event, her dress tight and constricting, her make-up warrior-like, shields, walls and weapons raised with indomitable firmness, her heart and whatever sigh of affection for Snow White that may still linger within it hidden and crushed under the weight of hatred strong enough to build castle-like defenses about her. And yet, she should have feared nothing, for the sight of Snow, pleading and defenseless when faced with the possibility of saving her prince, had brought nothing but satisfaction as hot as iron to Regina’s heaving chest, piecing together broken parts of a heart so splintered that Regina had thought it torn forever.

Together they had stood in that field, where their story had started decades ago, the tale of a blood feud coming to an end as Regina opened a crack in her defenses wide enough for Snow to spy wounds of the past, festering still right under Regina’s skin, the scars invisible and the pain made worse by virtue of their silenced grief. Snow had seen, and for the first time ever, Regina had failed to spy the sentiment behind her eyes, her gaze clouded by years of separation, by a fight made of pain sharper than bloodied knuckles, by a world of lies and betrayal hidden away in years of feigned love born out of pure survival instinct. And yet, Regina dares say there’d been no pity, but only sadness, waves of it permeating Snow’s frame as she looked upon Regina, made up to be the Evil Queen with every stroke of make-up, every curved smirk, every harsh word, every pointed bead etched into her dress, but somehow still the woman she had grown up with, hidden away in ridges and crevices, emptied out by loss, clinging to the corners of Regina’s mind and looking on, hoping for peace of mind.

And so they’d faced each other, two sides of a coin that the world had tossed over a decade ago, the hero Snow White and the Evil Queen, two women with a kingdom set ablaze between them, and at the same time sisters forced together by chance, and pried apart by the fingers of inevitability. Regina had offered an apple, a smile like a bruise painting her lips, and Snow had taken a bite, love etched tightly into her heart bringing death where all the hatred in the world had failed to hurt her, and the princess had tumbled to the same ground where she had first decided that Regina was to be hers, the bitten fruit rolling away from her limp fingers, her chest paused in the breathlessness of eternal sleep. Regina had taken a big breath in her stead, and as the air left her body, constricted by whalebones pinching her skin, hidden away by pinks and purples carved around her eyes and into her lips, she had felt the weight of the world lifting away from her shoulders, so the step she had taken over the fallen body had been but buoyant floating, and the laughter that had parted her lips but a tittering waterfall of sound.

Upon her arrival at the palace, however, fatigue had conquered her with the indomitability of a war fought for centuries on end, strength leaving her body and fuzziness clouding her head until she was left feeling but a mild tingle at the tips of her fingers accompanied by the boundless desire to lay down and never wake up. She’d laughed at the thought even as she allowed her lady’s maid to pull at lace and string, to press a warm cloth to her face, stripping away her armor with fingers already familiar with the motions. She’d laughed because it was Snow that slept the sleep of the dammed, and yet it was Regina who was being pulled under the shroud of placid slumber, the fingers of fate soothing aches where they had only bruised in the past. And so it is that Regina sleeps, and when she opens her eyes, she does it to a world where Snow White dwells no longer, and where the Evil Queen reigns sovereign, and so at last, the world moves under the rules set by its rightful queen.

 

* * *

 

Regina’s day begins with arms stretched contentedly, lips curved into a cat-like smile, and stomach grumbling away. The scent of breakfast calls to her immediately, and Regina gives into her hunger with gusto. She sits at a table already set with far too much food, and after a short inspection of it, she pushes the tasteless yet hearty porridge she has been favoring as of late away in favor of pecking her way through still warm bread, figs and fresh milk, her eyes distracted with the sight of the greyish sky outside while she eats slowly, the meal settling a malnourished stomach since she’s finally allowing herself time to sit down and eat, rather than rushing through every moment. Her balcony doors are open, autumn breeze that is already too cold filtering into the room, making the heavy drapes sway on their spot, and Regina burrows into her seat, wrapping her robe tighter about herself. The day smells of rain, and it makes her lazy, the thought of which makes her smile. She has felt nothing but restless for months, anticipation burning bright under her skin, and it seems to her that she deserves the tranquility unraveling inside her chest, the soft detachment pressing cotton-like against her mind. She settles her eyes upon the view outside, and thinks that she’s looking at a world without Snow White in it. How daunting, she muses, right before she laughs.

The weightlessness of the day lasts her all through morning, most of which she spends outside by her balcony, dressed in nothing but a thick nightgown and her robe, her feet bare against the cold marble of the floor despite the chilly air of the season and the threat of rain from the skies. She has stood hundreds of times right on this very same spot, always seeking peace of some kind, even when such a feat had only seemed possible if she were to give up entirely and jump to the vast void before her, never before being consumed by the sense of giddiness present in her today. Fleetingly, she realizes that despite plans and plots, that despite clawing her way through ranks and politics so as to be able to make use of the crown that had once been nailed to her head without her wish, that despite filling her anger with purpose and aim, she has secretly feared all this time that her vengeance was but an impossibility. How could she think otherwise, when her power and her cunning seemed but tendrils of weak endeavors in the face of a kingdom that had crowned another as their champion, when her efforts and dreamless nights were slandered as machinations of an evil spirit while Snow White’s running was clamored as bravery against a cruel tyrant? It makes it all the sweeter then, that years upon years of grief have finally afforded her the winning hand.

Father finds her late in the afternoon, when the sun is starting its descent into the darkness of the night and when Regina’s numbness has already given way to steady and practical thoughts. She intends to send news of Snow’s defeat across the kingdom, much as she once did when the king had died. There will be bards and proclaimers, led through paths and villages by the shadow of her Black Army, and their voices will rise for the victory of the Evil Queen and the swift defeat of the kingdom’s hopes, and so there will be no sliver of faith left for rumors and fake beliefs, no time for mouths to run wild with ideas of the princess coming back to life. A cursed princess will be a far more efficient tale to spread than a dead princess, too, for somehow people are far more afraid of magic than of death, and so they will despair for a while, and then they will forget with the same fickleness they had displayed when they’d decided which roles both her and Snow were to play.

Regina expects a brew of uprising once the first waves of confusion and consternation die, however, knowing that the martyr-like defeat of Snow will call for the fighting spirit of those stupid enough to be loyal to a dead cause. Regina will be prepared for such an upheaval in advance, though, and with the first efforts quenched with plodding fury, she has no doubt that the kingdom will shimmer down and admit to the triumph already filling Regina’s hands. Then, with their princess gone and Regina’s mind at rest, they will be quick to realize that if they ever afforded her the title of evil, then it was because they refused her only desire, and that now that her spirit is at rest, she’s nothing if not a queen to be respected, and not feared.

“We were worried, _cielo,_ ” father tells her, voice low and steps silent, standing a few feet from her but reaching out, offering his hand palm up for her to take if she so wishes. “You are not feeling sick, are you?”

“No at all, daddy,” Regina answers, taking the offered hand with both of her own and nearing father’s hunching figure.

He smells of powder and sugar, as if he’s been spending more time around the kitchens than any nobleman should, and he’s looking up at her with something like wonder, as if he doesn’t know quite what to expect. He’s heard of Snow’s fate by now, of course, and Regina isn’t particularly sure she wants to know how he feels about the choice Regina forced upon her, or about the prince still dwelling in her dungeons. She chooses not to question the matter, knowing well that father has a gentle spirit and a desire for tranquility that will never understand Regina’s quest or her path of self-righteous anger, but knowing just as well that father’s love for her always wins over whatever he may be feeling for her otherwise. Holding his hand between hers, she leans down to press a kiss to his cheek, his skin papery with age but as smooth as she remembers it being as a child, when father was still strong enough to lift her up from the ground and carry her upon his shoulders. She has a sudden desire for the simple joys of what her childhood had been, for the world she’d known before Snow had walked into her life, before she’d understood the meaning behind mother’s commands, and even before she’s speaking the words, she already knows what she wishes to do.

“Let’s have a ball,” she states, childlike wonder in her smile when father lifts warm brown eyes to lock with her own. “A celebration,” she continues, biting her lip as she imagines twinkling lights and elegant dresses, music and sparkling wine. “We’ll open up the doors of the palace, invite all the noblemen and have food and drink and music – will you dance with me, daddy? It has been… years,” she says, her speech cut by the deep seethed ghost of a sigh, words touched with nostalgia that she doesn’t usually allow herself, lest it consume her.

Father smiles at her, something small yet cheerful, carefree in that way only he manages to be when dealing with Regina. Laughter hidden in the wrinkles around his eyes and caressing his voice, he says, “I don’t know, _cielo,_ my knees aren’t what they used to be anymore.”

Regina _tsks,_ playful to match his demeanor and quick to press another kiss to his other cheek. “A slow dance, then,” she replies, twining then their arms together and pulling so they’re walking inside her bedchambers and towards the closed doors. “Come; there’s much to prepare.”

The council receives her decision to have a ball with open enthusiasm, claiming how happy they are that she’s finally listening to what they have been saying all these years about congratulating herself with the court, and making Regina almost regret the decision right then and there. She clarifies that the occasion is a punctual celebration, and that no one should be made to believe that Regina is in any way inclined to have noblemen prowling her hallways on a permanent basis. Nonetheless, the council seems contented with the idea, and so Regina leaves them with the task of issuing invitations for as soon as the next week, not wanting to lose the sudden and frenzied excitement behind the idea. She has them approach her neighboring kingdoms just as well, naming George and Midas, as well as whichever entourage they wish to travel with as honored guests, their involvement in her victory over Snow not to be forgotten. In a last minute decision, and as sign of mirthful disobedience, she issues personal invitations to the Queens of Darkness, her penchant for scandalizing the court upturned by the liberation of senses previously trapped by thoughts of her revenge.

If her council is happy, then her household not so much, putting a ball together for a boundless number of fancy guests in little over a week proving extraneous work. Her Head Cook grumbles the most, and never shy to express her opinions to her queen, complains at every request, of which there are many. Regina gives her the bound book of recipes she’d collected from her sweet and never forgotten Prince Bernard, and exhorts her to make at least a batch of every single one of them; she has her trudge through the cobwebs of her memories for spicy treats and sweets that Little Ace had brought to their table, and which Regina had forbidden after the girl’s demise; she sics father on her with orders of asking for dishes that had once graced their table back home at the manor, and which mother had steadily abolished and substituted with bland stews and porridges; she has her prepare platefuls of _dukkah,_ and to make use of spices left behind not long ago by Nubia; and with glee, she gives her baskets upon baskets of new autumn apples, the very best coming from her fully healed tree, with orders for them to be turned into fritters and pies, tarts and sauces, cakes and polentas, doughnuts and turnovers, and of course, cider. She orders vast amounts of chocolate to be brought to the palace, too, as well as expensive treats such as _turron_ and dates, thinking of Maleficent’s taste for anything special and foreign, her capriciousness in her eating habits as well as other appetites something that Regina had always enjoyed.

When her Military Advisor questions her sudden taste for exuberance, Regina dismisses his worries with twirling hands and careless words. She has been known in the past for her frugality in certain matters, never one for wasting resources, much more so after living through the disease that had almost killed them all, but for this ball she spares no expense, hoping to make of it the celebration that she was never afforded as Leopold’s queen. Not even her wedding had been a proper feast in her name, everyone quick to ignore her even as she waddled her way through the room in the heftiest dress she’s ever worn, her frame pushed down by jewelry so heavy that it had only been surpassed in weight by that of her old husband’s above her later that same night. Later, too, balls and feasts had been held in Snow’s name, and Regina remembers the princess shining as an uncrowned and tasty jewel in the middle of the dance floor, feet light and head held high, her paleness painted with rosy excitement and her smile beautiful under twinkling candlelight. Regina had done her part then, skulking around the edges, planning and plotting and lying to carve herself a spot within the crevices of a court that she’d despised, wishing for someone to offer a kindness as simple as a dance. There is no more hiding to be had, though, not with Leopold rotting away under her feet and with Snow White trapped in eternal sleep, forever beautiful, forever bereft of life, and so Regina will have the most splendorous ball that there is to be had.

Not one to celebrate alone, she has food and beverage run rampant through the kingdom, knowing by now that she will sooner conquer her people back by filling their bellies with warm bread and muddling their thoughts with good ale than with rousing speeches and shows of strength. Tides are bound to change, and while the difference is already making her chest expand with the ease of liberation hard-won, she intends to make the kingdom understand that there has been a shift in the world around them – and what better way to make sure people know better times are ahead than with music, wine and food?

 

* * *

 

The ball is everything Regina wants it to be and more, grander than any other the palace has seen in the past, made even more special by the noblemen having been denied entrance for such long years. Everybody comes, if driven by fear or curiosity Regina hardly cares, not when everyone being welcomed into the ballroom is but a glorified doll which had no other purpose than playing house as their host wishes them to, an Evil Queen with the enthusiasm of a child and the mood of a young girl attending her first ball. The court provides the background for her personal entertainment, ohhing and awing accordingly without being prompted, gasping as if on cue when Regina makes her late entrance, applauding as if they knew the gesture to be expected. And Regina – well, Regina laughs. Robed in a brand new gown that had the Royal Taylor sleepless for days, Regina saunters her way inside the room, the blood red and metallic gold shine to the fabric surrounding her proving a bold and commanding choice, making her the center of attention in every way Leopold had denied her in the past. And if Leopold’s memory is to be thrown out the window tonight, then so is mother’s, her rules on politeness and frugality forgotten the moment a tray of dark chocolate makes its way before Regina’s eyes.

Regina eats. She eats and she drinks and she dances, laughing in a throaty cascade that refuses to be shy and composed, that ignores ideas of what a lady should be, that rejects hiding and slithering around the corners like a mean-spirited snake when it so clearly belongs to a pouncing beast instead. Her court, banished for so long and only admitted back for this poignant night, is as curious about her as it seems adamant in avoiding her, and perhaps her infamous mercurial temper, but Regina doesn’t let them rest, happy to drag whoever looks positively terrified with her into the dance floor, men and women alike. The trembling and nervous laughter does tire her eventually, though, and Regina has half a moment of regret over her decision of keeping Snow’s prince trapped in the dungeons. She’d toyed with the idea of forcing him into pretty clothes and bringing him as companion, turning his scowling hatred and stubborn defiance into entertainment for the night, much a she’d done at the prince’s own engagement party. After all, despite heroic speeches and a spirit self-righteous enough to match Snow’s, the prince had given her the courtesy of not turning into a mass of trembling limbs before her. However, she’d decided to spare herself the inevitable escape attempt that would proceed were she to allow him a moment unchained, and so tonight she distracts her attentions with his surrogate father instead.

Regina had danced with George once upon a time, when she’d been seventeen and him nothing more than an old king fit for mother’s purposes and so far away from anything important to Regina that his rejection had been but a merciful gift. Unwittingly, George had bought her precious time with Daniel. Tonight, he’s the only man that doesn’t see himself dragged to the dance floor, but that rather asks for a dance himself, his words short and the hand he offers her presented as a favor rather than a symbol of honor. He refuses to bow just as well, and yet Regina laughs with genuine delight and takes the offering. He’s hardly a friend, the ever stoic George, but he respected her when no one else did, and despite a partnership full of upheavals, she does prefer the instances that see them fighting on the same side.

There is no fighting to be had tonight, and Regina is surprised by the king’s proficiency as a dance partner. He’s very by the book in his every move, his back straightened at just the right angle, the separation he keeps from her nothing if not the appropriate one, the tension in his arm enough to both hold her and drive her movement around the floor, allowing for her dress to swish in the most pleasant way. It should be far too stilted, and yet his hand feels surprisingly pleasant at the small of her back, and his eyes are fearsomely steady against her own, his feet moving them about with the clear intention of showing her off. She would have never guessed that such a man could be an extraordinary dancer, and it pleases her enough that she manages to ignore his pleas of having his son returned to him with the same crackling delight that she uses to deny his weak attempt at what must be his thirtieth marriage proposal by now.

“George, dear, no; for the umpteenth time, no,” she answers, stopping their movements in the middle of the floor even while she remains encased within his arms, their dancing frame loosened but not gone.

“And don’t you dare have a pout and raise your armies over this. I do like you on my side, but you know fairly well I have no qualms about squashing you like a bug,” she states, fury curling at her throat, only contained by the contentment that has been clouding her feelings so far. With a wicked little smile, she adds, “I do so like your castle; don’t tempt me to claim it for my own.”

Surprisingly enough, George matches her smile with one of his own. The gesture doesn’t sit well within his features, the comfort of a tight set of lips and eyes hardened by sobriety replaced by a curl of lips better suited for a mad man. Regina reacts jerkily, trying to move her hand from where it rests in George’s hold and finding it trapped instead, the squeeze of George’s fingers about her own abruptly unforgiving.

“You are a most magnificent woman, Regina.”

The most inelegant snort parts Regina’s lips, the sound strangling itself when George takes a step towards her while at the same time bringing her closer with the hand still resting at the small of her back. If she’d enjoyed the touch briefly, it troubles her now, the feeling of her chest pressing against George’s unpleasantly itchy. She yanks her hand away from his with determination, but while she endeavors to get completely separated from him, he leans closer so his warm breath touches the skin of her cheek, dampness that might have been attractive from just about anyone else impossibly uncomfortable.

“The truth of the matter is, my queen, that I love you.”

That stops Regina’s frantic movements, her senses startled both by the words and the utter coldness lacing the tone of voice uttering what should otherwise be the most poetic of confessions. She laughs, small and nervous when she intends to make the sound into a mocking cackle. “Don’t be ridiculous, dear George.”

George, however, has thrown himself into whatever little fantasy world he has concocted with the same steadfast determination he applies to commanding his armies, for he’s not deterred, not by Regina’s words or her obvious discomfort at being held between what she now realizes are very strong arms. George’s breath is warm and clean, but Regina’s mind stabs her with the sudden memory of Leopold’s rum-soaked scent, the aroma of nights spent in despair, of a child lost and innocence gone. It makes her dizzy, and she wants to gag, but George is merely talking to her, words that jumble together and reach her as the most unsteady cacophony, a string of absurdity woven into words of praise. _So ruthless,_ he says, _so heartless, so strong; never thought I would love again, but you…_ His words hold no meaning, and yet, when George's lips shape the title _my queen_ after every sentence of devotion, devoid of passion but tied up with possession, Regina shudders. She tries to rid herself of George’s embrace once more, but her limbs feel weak and useless, incapable of such a feat. Anger travels up her spine then, violent in its intent and awakening a spark of magic as it burns its way through her body.

She snaps and with her, so does George’s wrist. Whatever mindless idiocy he was busy spewing her way stops with a low hiss of pain, George’s hand at her back suddenly going limp so that Regina is free to take a couple of steps back, freeing herself from George’s embrace and breathing in big gulps of air. No one notices their sudden tense stances, and George is mindful enough to not cause a scene, merely holding his broken wrist against the palm of his other hand, his eyes searching Regina’s rather than inspecting the bruising already starting to blacken the skin around the break.

"Stubborn, too; I forget,” George hisses, tightly coiled anger seeping out of every pore.

“You forget yourself completely, old man,” Regina snaps back, leaning back again into George’s space now that she’s regained her composure, whatever discomfort the man had caused seconds ago completely gone and substituted by sheer disgust. “All these years and you still believe I need a man by my side.”

“Perhaps it is me that needs a woman, Your Majesty,” George replies with conviction. It settles better in his frame than whatever poetical fancies he’d been attempting before, and it paints his voice with the truth of confession. “I was fond of my first wife, Regina,” he tells her, abandoning formalities for the first time since they’ve known each other by using her given name. Regina doesn’t like it, but she allows him to continue, curious about what he has to say.

George takes a moment to bring his hurt wrist closer to his chest, holds it there with as much dignity as he possesses, and then continues, “She was mild, modest and beautiful, and the ladies of the court loved her. I was sad to see her go, but I refused to take a second queen to follow her path of quaint servitude. The moment I met you I realized why that was.”

“The moment you met me, dear George, you rejected my mother’s attempts at having you propose, so please do tell your tale with precision, since you plan on boring me to death. Is there a point to this at all?”

George smiles, something almost fond in the gesture that feels so utterly odd in his features, and tells her, “You were a girl then, and had I known the woman you would become I would have kneeled before you right then and there. I would, right now, if it pleases you, my queen.”

The title burns against Regina’s chest, and she snaps at George once again before he can continue with his nonsense. “Enough. I was no more Leopold’s queen than I am yours.”

“You speak the truth. Leopold was an undeserving fool, but next to me you would have your rightful place. We would be equals in everything, in command and in po–”

George’s speech is cut by a clear peal of laughter this time, real amusement coloring the sound. The gall of this man, offering Regina equality when she has spent years fighting her way through conventions and traditions that insisted on pushing her down a notch, on making her place one in which she’s never belonged. It irritates her, that so late in the game he would dare declare love and give her parity as a gift, knowing that no other man would propose such an unheard-of marriage deal, that it would surely be Regina’s best offer were she looking for a husband. The foolishness of the world that she must live in makes her smirk, however, and she takes the one step that has been allowing breathing space in between her and George, pressing herself closer and making an effort to stand taller in heels that are already towering impossibly, just so she can whisper her next words right against the shell of George’s ear.

“George, we are _not_ equals,” she states, denying whatever delusion he has made himself believe by circling his hurt wrist with tightening fingers, squeezing against bones that feel unnaturally dislocated under her palm. He hisses and she smiles even wider, her teeth those of a wild beast. “I am miles above you, and you will do well to remember that allowing you to be my ally is the highest privilege that you can hope to achieve.”

She squeezes one last time, secretly hoping for a grunt of pain. George denies her, his spirit strong and stubborn despite Regina’s inquisition, and so she gives up on continuing whatever this past moments have been. People are starting to stare, too, and she would rather not play jester for the court. Instead, she gestures distractedly to her side, and the motion brings one of her Black Guards immediately to her side.

“Claude, please be a dear and escort King George to our doctor; there has been a regrettable accident, and I wouldn’t want my closest ally to be in any pain.”

George glares at her and Regina keeps her smile pasted on her face, content when the king doesn’t put up a further fight and simply follows Claude’s steps, his head held high up in the air, as if having dismissed whatever offense Regina has committed against him. His ego has suffered a blow, however, and it also makes up for the discomfort he’s settled upon Regina’s shoulders with his little stunt. There is such petty satisfaction in denying those who always get what they want, after all.

 

* * *

 

Her run in with George leaves her unsettled, as if he’s cast a shadow of doom over what should have otherwise been a bountiful celebration to liberate her mind and her senses. He’s made it a little harder to stop thinking, however, to forget a world that even now expects that which Regina isn’t willing to give. Nonetheless, the room spins with clear music and warms up with food, drink and laughter, the late hour and the outlandish display of the kingdom’s splendor seemingly enough to forget about Evil Queens and princesses laying asleep. The masses, commoners and nobles alike, are so fickle in their favor that it’s nearly risible, and Regina decides that it is absurd for her to be distraught by what this kingdom of hers thinks of her at all. Now more than ever, she knows that Snow White will be forgotten faster than her reputation had risen – the kingdom hankers for legends and fantastical battles, and a martyr put to sleep by an apple in a lonely field lacks the necessary heroic climax to keep their senses dazzled for longer than a few moments of mourning. Regina thinks it’s better this way, though, for even if the kingdom had roared and burnt as it fought their battles, the war had always belonged only to her and Snow, and so its resolution is bound to only soothe Regina’s broken heart.

With her spirits lifted and her mind cottoned by liberal amounts of wine, Regina convinces herself that the celebration might just turn to be uneventful but for its unique appeal, George and his ill-advised stab of madness almost forgotten. Regina makes an effort to remain calm and giddy, and to enjoy her guests as much as she possibly can given her usual derision towards the court. There are friendly faces amongst the crowd tonight, and so Regina looks for them and finds herself sharing a drink and a quiet chat with Duchess Adela, who has traveled from the north along with her tiny charge. The picture they make amuses Regina, the duchess clad in her usual rich yet stern attire, shades of grey covering every inch of skin but her face and hands, while the little girl stumbles about the room in the puffiest yellow gown Regina has ever laid her eyes upon. The duchess seems happy enough with her role as tutor, at least enough that she forgets to further berate Regina for that unfortunate trip up north and the regrettable demise of King Edmund.

The night proves to follow the path of the unconventional, however, when a high-pitched scream alerts Regina to some sort of ruckus on the far end of the ballroom, the origin of which makes her roll her eyes with near immediacy. Perhaps she should have clarified that her invitations didn’t include pets, but then she’d hardly guessed that Cruella would show up with her mutts trailing her. Regina can’t help but snort, though, when a group of ladies cowers away from the unusual visitor at the same time they eye her with gazes full of judgment. Then again, what can they possibly do at the sight of the strange creature that Cruella is? The witch doesn’t seem bothered, and the moment she spots Regina among the crowd, she begins walking her way. It always seems to Regina that she’s about to fall under the heavy weight of the furs she’s so fond of, her walk an ungainly dance of too thin limbs and feet that never quite got used to wearing heels.

Regina smiles, amused, and Cruella steals her delight away in the next second, when she bellows across the room, “Nice digs, Reggie.”

Most of the time Regina forgets that she can only stand Cruella as long as she’s not existing anywhere near her. She would have taken Ursula any day, alas, this ball of hers seems to be adamant in displeasing her at every turn.

Cruella makes her way towards her finally, snatching a goblet of wine from a nearby tray and obviously satisfied by the eyes that are following her movements, by now most of the noblemen’s around them, those that aren’t busy inspecting the witch staring at her dogs instead, following her trail before settling themselves on the floor, as if the most perfectly behaved little pets.

“I didn’t take you for much of wine enthusiast, dear,” Regina comments once Cruella is within earshot.

“Oh, I’m not, darling,” she replies, looking at Regina as if she’s positively lost her mind and then canting the goblet backwards, throwing the wine away in one swift movement. The red liquid lands straight on an old baroness’ dress, but Cruella is already busy extracting a bottle of gin from the confine of her furs and pouring it on the empty goblet to pay much attention to the spluttered protests of the lady. “Gin?”

Regina shakes her head, still undecided on whether Cruella is being amusing or completely irritating, and settling somewhere in a middle that is already familiar to Regina when it comes to the other woman. Choosing to lean closer to amusement, though, Regina leans back against the closest wall with a casual air, and wonders, “And where is your better half?”

Cruella waves a hand dismissively in the air, and takes a long sip of her drink before shrugging one shoulder and explaining, “Sinking ships or something. Some old grudge with a pirate; honestly, darling, I wasn’t paying attention. It’s always insane plots with you lot. Can’t you just… run your enemies over with your car or something?”

Regina lifts a questioning eyebrow, but Cruella stops whatever she may have wanted to say with a snort. “Right, no cars.”

For all of her rudeness and her proclivity for causing irritation, Cruella _is_ one of the oddest creatures Regina has ever met, and she would be lying if she said she wasn’t interested in some of the nonsense she spouts. Her speech is always filled with the most unusual words, and she carries with her objects from a world that can’t possibly be the one they’re living in. The court seems equally curious about Regina’s latest guest, even if most noblemen have chosen to hide their appraisal behind aloof gazes. Adela’s little charge is even busy patting the head of one of Cruella’s dogs with all the excitement of her two-year old little self.

Cruella, for her part, refills her already empty goblet with more gin, and then extracts a silver and thin object from whatever secret pockets she has in her strange garments. Regina looks on with child-like curiosity, and bites her lower lip when the object turns out to be a box filled with the white cylinders she’s seen Cruella smoke in the past.

Mocking smile twisting her lips, Cruella drawls, “No cigarettes, either, of course. Want one, darling?”

“Is it like tobacco?”

Regina thinks father might have been a smoker in his youth, but mother had banished such practices from her house. Leopold had indulged occasionally, though, always when surrounded by big, old men prattling about nothing at all and feeding their egos while the women looked on from the other side of the room, busy embroidering and drinking sweetened tea. Regina had never had much intimacy with the ladies of the court but for Baroness Irene, but in those instances of smoke and laughter, they had all shared in an equal taste of bitterness when staring at their husbands. Surprisingly enough, Snow had been the one to steal some of her father’s tobacco once, fifteen and probably prodded by her newly acquired sycophants. Regina had found out, scolded them for the transgression and taken the tobacco away, only to smoke it herself later. It had made her so sick that she’d refused dinner altogether.

Tonight, however, when Cruella nods her assents, she takes one of the strange cylinders and follows the other woman’s lead by bringing it up to her parted lips. Cruella lights them both up with a candle she snags from a nearby table, and the moment the tip shines bright orange, the back of Regina’s throat itches with the uncomfortable touch of smoke against it. She coughs, pulling the cigarette away from her mouth, and Cruella laughs even as she pats her back in a repetitive motion. The commotion is enough to alert her guard, but Regina dismisses his worries with a raised palm.

“My, my, to have an army at your feet like that,” Cruella drawls, smoke pouring out her nose with practiced ease while Regina considers whether she wants to give the smoking thing another try or not. “It almost makes up for this place.”

“This place?”

“Honestly, darling, it’s like hell but with better fashion.”

Regina shrugs, not particularly sure what Cruella is getting to, and eventually decides to forget about the cigarette still between her fingers. The thing had tasted nasty anyway, so she drops it in a nearby cup and motions until one of the servants brings her a cupful of wine so she can hopefully erase the taste away.

“I should get me a king, I think,” Cruella tells her, appraising the room and the people within it. “It’s gotten so boring lately, with Ursula gone sinking ships and Mal all broody. She’s in a awful pout lately; trouble in paradise?”

Regina twists her lips into a snarl. She would rather not discuss Maleficent with Cruella, but then she hasn’t seen her since their last strange encounter, and she had half hoped that she would agree to come to the ball tonight. If anyone can appreciate the magnitude of her triumphant revenge, after all, that’s her, and Regina wouldn’t have minded gloating with her by her side.

“I did invite her tonight,” Regina whines.

“And she burnt the invite, said she doesn’t belong here and you don’t want to see her in your palace. It was very serious and terrifying.”

Regina huffs, mumbling an instinctual, “That insufferable woman. After all these years, honestly.”

“I thought her thing was _not_ getting invited places and throwing a fit.”

“That’s just a stupid legend.”

Then again, for all that Regina knows, it may just be the absolute truth. It tastes like the most bitter of absurdities to Regina’s palate, but the truth is that Maleficent has never explained her past to Regina, always far too talented at ignoring her questions and distracting her with other far more pleasurable matters. Regina doesn’t know what ties her to Briar Rose and King Stefan, or how her thick scars came about, and while she can guess at swordfights and a grudge of forgotten origins, she can’t truly say what Briar Rose might have done to earn Maleficent’s hatred as well as the sadness that always conquered her deep blue eyes whenever mentioned. Maleficent had once told her that Briar Rose hadn’t loved her enough, and Regina wonders if she’s not guilty of the same crime. Nonetheless, Maleficent holding onto the memory of Regina pushing her away after all these years hurts in a way that Regina doesn’t know how to control – it feels entirely too much like heartbreak, and she refuses to dwell on it.

“Anyway, darling,” Cruella drawls, snapping Regina from her moment of introspection when she leans against her, one fur-clad forearm resting on Regina’s shoulder and making her wrinkle her nose. “As I was saying, I could do with a king. Do you have one you can spare?”

Regina huffs, but just when she’s about to reply with unkindness harsh enough to hopefully drive Cruella away, she has the most mischievous idea, and motions for Claude to come to her side.

“Claude, has King George been attended to?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. He’s resting by the balcony’s doors, in the company of Duke Wentworth.”

Regina moves her gaze towards the indicated spot, and smiles like a cat who the cream. “That over there is King George,” she tells Cruella. “Old, rich, widower, _loves_ a ruthless woman. He’ll just adore you, dear.”

Cruella offers her a wolfish smile, and then doesn’t spare another second with her, pressing a dry kiss and mouthing a _tata, darling, mama has to work her magic_ before she’s stumbling away and towards George, the strange pop of her hip possibly some misguided attempt at seduction. Oh, George is in for a treat.

 

* * *

 

The darkest hours of night fall upon them, and Regina finds herself once again in the middle of the dance floor, happy to let her feet grow impossibly tired as she sways her way through the ballroom with graceful and never-forgotten steps. Despite evidence to the contrary, the night has been accommodating enough, Cruella forgotten after her Military Advisor had presented her with a gift in the form of spectacle. Knowing of her taste for delighting herself with her troops' training, he has a selection of her men perform a spectacularly intricate choreography of fighting movements for her, naked chests glistening under the candlelight and muscles moving in perfect unison. She hadn’t been the only one delighted with the show, men and women alike whispering of the prowess of such a powerful and well-trained army.

However, it is a night for the unlikely, since the witching hour of midnight brings an uninvited guest with it, the collective intake of breath of hundreds of noblemen registering only a second before Regina finds herself settling her eyes upon Rumpelstiltskin, leg shot forward and arms outstretched in a flourishing bow right before her, and in the middle of the dance floor.

“I don’t quite remember issuing an invitation,” Regina tells him, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring, the corners of her eyes filled with whispering people and gasps of recognition.

“All the more reason to come, dearie.”

Regina chuckles in wry amusement, the sound leaving behind a smirk painted on maroon colored lips. Rumpelstiltskin straightens up with feline grace, and when he offers a hand that sparkles golden under the candlelight, Regina takes it, mirth in her eyes from knowing herself followed by the eyes of the court. Rumpelstiltskin eases them into a fluid dancing frame, his feet light even as he pushes her out of the rhythm of the music, twirling her into a fast-paced waltz, making a show out of their discordance. It must be his aim tonight; after all, Regina figures he would have opted for a glamour had he intended subtlety. Instead, he’s at the height of his impish glory, clad in deep green and snake like clothes, his teeth as sharp as a crocodile’s, a predator to match the lioness Regina has chosen to be for the night.

Regina’s taller than him tonight, her impossible heels making her tower above him, so that when he leans into her his breath dampens her cheek. “We’re being stared at, dearie,” he whispers to her, a child uttering the naughtiest secret hidden in the giggle he proffers next.

Regina bites her lower lip briefly, wanting to yell but choosing to say nothing instead. _Let them stare,_ she thinks, _let them stare as they never have before, with awe and fear in their eyes._ She’d hidden enough, after all, had she not? She had played by this court’s rules for years, and she’d made use of its judgment and quirks to climb a ladder that hadn’t been hers to climb, but now times have changed and the inherited wisdom of the past has become folly. It is a brave new world – hers, paid for in fire and blood – and now it is them that must adapt or die.

“I suppose congratulations are in order,” Rumpelstiltskin tells her after a particularly impressive spin that has her skirts flying about her, and that returns her to his arms with a touch of breathlessness.

She laughs when he prods her to keep dancing, the skin of his hand rough and his grip too tight to be comfortable, but the breeziness of his steps making up for it. Perhaps, after all, allies and enemies alike do make for the best partners in a dance, something about a graceful partnership laced with murderous intent unraveling excitement within Regina’s chest. Perhaps it’s simply that Regina is drunk, or that Rumpelstiltskin is a naturally good dancer; perhaps, though, it’s the knowledge that no matter how many cards the imp has under his sleeve, Regina has a better one imprisoned inside her palace.

Foregoing further pondering on the matter, Regina gives the imp a polite bow of her head and, with a cheeky smirk, tells him, “Why thank you; and I here I thought you’d be upset I forgot to cast your little curse.”

“Destiny doesn’t mind waiting, dearie,” he intones, his voice almost song-like when he follows his words with a short laugh. He must sense Regina’s irritation the moment she tenses her shoulder, for he yanks her forward and presses his fingers with further firmness at the small of her back, ignoring whatever reply Regina may have half formed by stating, “I have to say I did love the apple. Nice touch, very… _appropriate.”_

“Such high praise, imp. Should I swoon?”

Ignoring her with ease and with an irritable familiarity, he twirls her once more, as if he somehow prefers her dizzy and mildly out of breath as she finds herself to be when her hand finds his yet again. She struggles to follow his steps for an instant, and he uses her clumsiness as excuse to keep a steely grasp on her back. Regina shudders, suddenly feeling trapped.

“Now, as for how you acquired your poison of choice, I–”

“Surely you won’t dare whine because I traded your curse, will you, dear?” She shrugs, inasmuch as she can manage such a gesture while they’re still making their way across a dance floor that has been emptied around them. Jutting her lower lip forward just the tiniest bit, she says, “Had you wanted it back, you should have asked.”

“Should I want it back, I would rip the dragon’s wings out and take it.”

She revolves inside his embrace, recoiling from his predatory smile, but only manages to stop their movements in the middle of the floor, their arms resting still about each other's. Regina fumbles for words, finding herself speechless when Rumpelstiltskin leans closer, looming despite his lack of height, danger etched into the corners of his lips. She leans back on instinct, but he keeps her close with knifelike nails at her back, sharp and broken against her skin even when there’s layers upon layers of lace, taffeta and whalebone in between them, a warning pressed against warm flesh.

And then he’s gone, one step back and arms loosening about her, the threatening part of tonight’s performance done with. A giggle closes the charade, and then he’s smiling at her, devious mirth etched in his eyes, that feeling of always being one step behind settling low on Regina’s belly.

“Food for thought, Your Majesty,” he tells her. “For tonight, however, congratulations on a game well played.”

That said, he bows one more time, almost as if he’s expecting applause, even when he disappears in a cloud of purple smoke before anyone can even think about moving. A harsh breath leaves Regina’s lungs the moment he’s gone, and she suddenly realizes that she’s alone in the middle of the floor, surrounded by looks that are as curious as they are judgmental, and that the music has stopped altogether, the silence deafening when it seems as if everyone is holding their breath. What are they expecting – a curse, a threat, someone’s death, simple anger? It doesn’t matter much to her, not when they’re supposed to be her entertainment, and not the other way around; she’d been the curiosity to stare at from afar for too long, after all.

She breaks the standstill with a growled order towards the musicians, and the moment music flows through the ballroom, whispers play its accompaniment. Regina runs from them with as much dignity as Rumpelstiltskin has left her with, fanning herself as if conquered by a heat spell as she directs her steps towards the balcony. She’s welcomed by cold breeze, the contrast against the stuffiness of the room sharp against her face. She reaches up, feels her skin flushed and entirely too warm. Inside the ballroom, the court is busy recovering the feeling of normalcy, and Regina catches the sight of ruffled dresses swishing against the floor as couples and groups go back to dancing, as hands reach over tables for far more food than they could ever eat, their mouths running with gossip but obviously already forgetting whatever it is they have seen. How easy it is for them to dismiss and forget, and how Regina hates them for it.

She reaches up for her neck, digging her fingers into the skin and glad that she decided against heavy jewelry tonight, wearing instead the tree pendant father gave her when she was barely a little girl. Turning around, she drags her eyes away from the inside of the room and turns them up towards the dark sky instead, hating that once again, she finds herself looking in from the outside. With sudden sharpness, the whole ordeal seems gaudy to her, the celebration of a personal victory turned into a vapid performance of vanity, and it makes her despise everything and everyone – the court for their mere existence, Maleficent for cursing her triumph with omens of future sins, Rumpelstiltskin for knowing exactly how to push every button until contentment turns foul, Snow, for everything she’s been and everything she still is, for casting a shadow even while gone.

Regina realizes she’s pacing, her chest heaving with heavy breaths, as if containing fury that wishes to escape her. She hardly knows what she should lash against, though, who should shape her anger now that Snow is gone, and she can’t help but laugh at the thought. Madness tingles at the corners of her mind, and she runs away from it, walking back inside the room and slithering around the edges until she’s left it behind, her steps taking her into her bedchambers. Eyes follow her as they never did in the past, everything about her unavoidable and impossible to ignore, but Regina pays them no mind, lest someone becomes victim of misplaced ire.

 _Destiny doesn’t mind waiting,_ Rumpelstiltskin had said, and Regina wonders what she’s supposed to do with such an statement. It had been as secure in its truth as Maleficent’s own, and the certainty of them pushes against her chest, uncomfortable. The thought grips at her with tangible fingers, branding her with the same stubborn determination that mother’s words had wielded in the past – mother wanted her to be queen and so she was, and now Rumpelstiltskin wants her to cast a curse and she wonders if doing so is an inevitability that Regina can’t battle her way out of. She refuses to believe so, refuses to yield to such an idea, for surely now that Snow has been defeated her own time has come, and there is nothing for her to be other than happy. There’s finally and open path before her, a future for her to unfold as she pleases, and no prophecies of fatality will convince her otherwise. _And yet._ And yet such certainty to the statement, and such anger still locked inside Regina’s heart.

Locked behind sturdy doors, Regina tugs inefficiently at her dress, the ludicrous contraption a sudden trap that won’t let her breathe. She peels every layer away eventually, and follows the motion with her face, wiping it clean of deep red and golden hues until there’s nothing but her own skin staring back at her from the mirror, olive tones and imperfect features, the scar above her lip a shade too white. Her hair follows the frenzy, locks coiled tightly into a high hairdo coming down her shoulders and back in curled waves until she’s standing completely bare, the Evil Queen gone and leaving behind whatever it is that there’s left without her – a too thin woman, Regina muses, with fading bruises upon her thighs and a nearly invisible scar cutting her lower belly.

Nonetheless, Regina finds herself attractive still, dusky nipples tight upon perky breasts, thin waist giving way to wide hips and narrowing to strong thighs, a patch of dark curls between her legs, the line of her collarbones elegant and her neck long, her skin smooth despite the flaws, a little too thinly settled over ribs that shouldn’t be that pronounced. Regina still, after all, imperfect but tangible, far more real than whatever woman it was that was presiding a ball over a triumph that none of its guests could possibly understand.

She doesn’t wish to dwell further in such thoughts, but she finds herself pressing her hands to the underside of her breasts nevertheless, and breathing in and out slowly, feeling the rippling motion under her hands, grounding herself with it. She trails her hands down to her waist, splays her palms over her stomach and wonders if she can somehow still find her own self somewhere within her skin and with all her armor lost. The thought stirs a feeling of _rightness_ inside her, and immediately she decides not to go back to bed, where ghosts linger still. Instead, she dresses herself this time in thick yet soft fabrics, light browns and dark greens hiding away her skin behind the comfort of riding garments. Foregoing makeup and tying her hair into a hasty braid that falls heavily down her back, she spares one moment to slide the chain with Daniel’s ring around her neck. Then, and with a flick of her magic, she disappears from her chambers and appears at the stables instead.

The horses don’t seem to mind the magic much, so she’s only greeted by the odd neigh and the strong scent permanently attached to the stables. The smell of leather, hay and manure shouldn’t by any means bring such tranquility to her senses, but it never fails to settle grounding calm above her shoulders. She finds _Rocinante_ with his eyes open and she smiles at the sight, imagining that he’s happy to see her, if only because the first thing she does is offer him a few carrots to munch on. She takes a moment to press her forehead to the side of his face and run her hands over his throat and down his chin in a soft scratching motion, as if saying _hello._ Apples and revenge have consumed her time with such compulsion that she hasn’t ridden at all during the past month, and suddenly she doesn’t understand why she thought a ball would be a proper celebration when the freedom of wind against her skin and strong muscles between her legs should have been her first instinct. Feeling weightless just at the thought, Regina takes a long while preparing _Rocinante,_ delighting herself in the artless job of brushing his hair and saddling him with careful movements. Then, she mounts with the ease and familiarity of years spent above a horse, and with a small nudge, sets _Rocinante_ into a strut that quickly turns into a full and powerful run, as aimless as it is liberating, the Evil Queen removing her claws from her shoulders until she’s but a girl atop a horse, riding away from her ghosts.

 

* * *

 

There is no sun to be had in the greyish day that sees Regina riding away from the palace, but were it so, it would be high up in the sky by the time she makes her way to what must have surely been her unwitting destination. _Rocinante_ stops without being prompted, and Regina stays perched atop him as she tries to gain her breathing back, the sight of the slab of grey stone marking Daniel’s grave unsurprising. Not for the first time, Regina runs to the embrace of her one true love, even if what had once been warm arms is now nothing but stone symbolizing tragedy.

Finding her footing back on the green grass after such a long ride proves difficult, and by the time she reaches the stone with Daniel’s engraved name, she doesn’t know if she collapses out of sheer tiredness or because she simply wishes to kneel. Whatever the case, she leans forward with unconscious impulse, her forehead finding the cold stone softly, the grainy feeling of it against her skin not nearly as uncomfortable as the truth hidden behind it. She presses a finger to the engraved lines tracing her beloved’s name, and realizes that she’s trembling. Not just her hands but all of her, her frame weakened by quivering so strong that the sob that climbs from her gut and up her throat chatters its way out, the sound of it broken and raw, like rocks on a path already dusty. It tightens at her throat and clenches her chest, and soon the hands she places over her beating heart and around her traitorously parted lips aren’t enough to hold back the tears. She cries, sobs that wreck her and open her up to grief that she’d buried once upon a time, eighteen years old and with the world changing itself about her, and her so ready to play by whichever rules had been set. And now, finally, a world ruled by her but Daniel dead nonetheless, a cold body kept young by a preservation spell and a slab of grey stone the only marks of an unremarkable life that had meant the world to Regina.

Regina cries and she doesn’t know for how long, her chipped heart allowing her the grief it had hidden away before Snow White merely a week ago, when they’d stood together in this very same field, finally paying homage to the life they had destroyed between their careless hands. Regina hadn’t known what Snow’s eyes had concealed that day, but now she understands, knows that she had looked upon her not with anger or pity, not even with contempt, but with shades of hurt so deep that Regina hadn’t been able to unveil them. And how Regina hates her, for hurting in her name even as Regina doomed her to a terrible destiny, for daring to feel pain over Daniel’s death, caused by nothing but her careless hands. Moreover, she hates her for failing to bring comfort to a soul emptied out and battered, and put together only with thoughts of deadly revenge, with anger so hot that it burnt away at wounds and scars, that it filled a void left behind by acute loss. Acute loss that she feels still, for the truth of the matter remains – that Snow White sleeps in the cradle of a curse so dark that she will forever be forbidden rest, but that Daniel lies dead just as well, his life gone, his laughter but an illusion of a far away memory.

Her breathing comes heavy and ragged after long hours of reckless sobbing, and Regina presses her hands to her abdomen in hopes of making herself calm down. It’s a difficult endeavor, cheeks warmed by tears and flushed red in her grief refusing her gulping big breaths of air. She feels weightless in the worst kind of way, and spots dance before eyes, black and confusing. When was the last time slept properly – the night after Snow’s defeat, perhaps? Too long ago, nonetheless, and she finds herself wetting suddenly parched lips and focusing her senses on the action and the cooling sensation it brings. It’s insufficient, hardly enough to ground her sudden dizzy spell, unlike the hand that unexpectedly graces her shoulder, resting there with a tight enough grip to pull Regina’s world back into focus. Confused still, Regina looks at the wrinkled fingers resting at her shoulder and follows their path to arms and shoulders, to neck and finally up to light brown eyes. She blinks owlishly, and wonders if she’s still dreaming after all.

“Daddy?” she wonders, her voice an uncomfortable croak that scratches at her throat.

It _is_ father before her, and not an illusion conjured up by a feverish mind. Dumbfounded, Regina watches him as he kneels next to her, reaching out with clean handkerchief that he presses to her damp cheeks, the basic fabric feeling like the finest of silks against her too warm skin. Father’s brittle-looking hands continue to dab at her tears, and Regina lets the familiar and welcome sight blink her dizziness away little by little, her chest expanding until she’s breathing rhythmically once again. Stupidly, she thinks that she never danced with father at the ball, after all.

“Daddy?” she repeats, still half-wondering if she’s only dreaming.

“We were worried, _cielo_ ,” he tells her, a smile so sweet that Regina almost believes the _we_ at the beginning of such a statement. After all, who would be worried other than father?

Regina parts her lips to question how he found her, even as her own carriage is clearly visible at the edge of the field, the four black steeds and its own sound something that Regina somehow managed to miss as she was buried within her own grief. Father beats her to the punch, however, stopping her words when he leans curling fingers above Regina’s open palm, where Daniel’s ring has been resting probably since Regina was overtaken by sobs. Two pairs of eyes settle upon the broken promise, and after an instant, Regina closes her fist around it and pulls her hand back.

“ _Pensé que vendrías aquí,”_ father tells her, voice smooth like clear water, age almost gone from the steady gaze he settles upon her. **(2)**

The language and the tone break her, punch her in the chest and open the dam all over again until Regina’s anguish is spilling out of her every pore, bubbling up and away from the surface and making her sway forward and right into father’s arms. He catches her impetus with a mild _oof,_ but holds her with the strength Regina sometimes doubts he has, bringing her closer when Regina digs claw-like fingers against his shoulders, hooking herself to his frame as if she would drift away otherwise. He whispers against her ear, soothing nonsense that only a child should need, a string of _cielo, princesa, no pasa nada, no pasa nada_ that feels like cool hands on feverish skin.

“Oh daddy, I just wanted to be happy,” she says, her voice a weak bubble of words among tears that refuse to dry. “I just wanted to be happy.”

Father makes no promises, doesn’t tell her that she will one day, that revenge and quests filled with anger will grant her what she wishes, will give her rest and peace and a place to belong. His words are as warm as his arms about her, though, this love of theirs that has only known life in shadows and hidden corners enough to hold her up one more day, more important than anything else when the grief she has belongs to the little girl she once was, and not to the woman that she has given life to. Father doesn’t rescue her, has never had the will nor the strength to do so, but he soothes her, and for now, she takes what she has and holds onto it, with plans to never let go.

 

* * *

 

Regina dreams, and she dreams in red. She dreams in shades of blood and battle, in shadows of loss and betrayal, in the color of apples turned poisonous and hearts beating inside the hollow of her hand. She sees –

She sees everything and nothing all at once; Snow White, ten years old and eyes full of fear, pink bow skewed around dark curls after nearly meeting death atop the back of a horse; Snow White, twelve and diving for Regina’s arms, finding comfort over a mother’s death in an embrace unwillingly given; Snow White, sixteen and with her arms about Regina, an _I love you_ clinging to parted lips; Snow White, dying at the hands of blackened sickness; Snow White, staring into Regina’s eyes with pain laced with betrayal, a village of slaughtered corpses before them both; Snow White, a veil of misunderstanding lifting from her gaze before choosing to take a bite of an apple grown just for her, tumbling to the floor in a heap bereft of life. And in between every moment, Rumpelstiltskin, a giggle that pushes itself into frazzled nerves, words speaking prophecies and offering power, refusing to confess what the true price will be; and Bernie, and Little Ace, faces lost to a world that picks and chooses who deserves its kindness with capricious fingers; the huntsman and his eyes rounded with disgust. Maleficent, too, shrouded in shadows and mysteries, offering a hand that Regina takes and rejects with no consideration for the one reaching out.

The images pull and push at her, and Regina knows that she’s dreaming but can’t make herself wake up, not when at every turn she finds Daniel just as well, dead weight heavy between her arms but skin warm still, his heart carved out of his chest and turned to dust, and Regina wanting to _clinclingcling_ to him and never let go, wishing she had ended her life right then and there and foregone all the grief that followed. But hands pull at her and images waver before her, red cloaked within the midnight blue of mother’s favorite dress and in _love is weakness, Regina_ and _why, why must it be, why can’t you love me, mother, why am I so wrong_ – and Regina knows it’s a dream but she can’t wake up. She can’t wake up so she runs instead, runs and doesn’t listen, not to Snow White’s pleads for a sisterly love doomed from its very beginning, not to her prince and his heroic speeches, not to Rumpelstiltskin and his whispers full of temptation, not to Maleficent and her warnings wrapped in an affectionate _little girl,_ not to the ghosts of babies never born and children taken by death far too soon. She runs until all she can hear is her own breathing, unsteady and harsh but proof enough of life. She runs, and runs, and runs until a path draws itself beneath her feet, and at its end, a fantasy once painted by unreliable magic awaits her. A mother and a baby, blond curls and chubby cheeks – she reaches out, wanting, wanting so much that her chest aches, yearning with the desperation of dreams, even when she knows she won’t get there, won’t –

And she doesn’t, not when ghostly hands pull at her from every limb, every piece of flesh, every memory and every trembling thought, not when every particle of her being sags and falls, spirits and sins from the past dragging her away. She screams, but sound doesn’t come, her voice stolen away and hands pulling at her; Snow’s and Rumpelstiltskin’s and Maleficent’s and father’s and many more, flashes of people pushed into the mud by her own unforgiving heels, dead by her hand, used for her interests, deemed unimportant. And then – mother. Mother and her unforgiving grip around her wrist, no longer strengthened by years of grief and loss but small and fragile, bony like a child’s and weak under mother’s force as she drags her away from whatever promises the future may hold, drags her down a hallway and – and it takes a moment for Regina to realize, but there, at the end of it, a cellar, dark and small and musty, the prison that she never deserved but that belongs to her nonetheless. A silent scream, and mother’s grip, and the inevitable ending of this journey and –

Regina wakes up in a cold sweat, a gasping breath clogging up her lungs until she’s coughing. It takes her a moment to understand that she’s not dreaming still, but she soon realizes when bile raises up her throat, threatening vomit. She escapes away from heavy linens with clumsy yet harried movements and runs towards the washbasin, where she dry-heaves painfully. She doesn’t get sick, but a bitter taste fixes itself at the back of her throat, and she gags for too long moments before she’s capable of settling herself. Even then, her sweat-soaked hair sticks to the back of her neck uncomfortably, and her hands shake as she does her best at holding herself upright. She closes her eyes tightly, and wills the nausea away, begs it to take whatever dreamlike images remain within the darkness of her closed eyelids with it as well.

Restful sleep has eluded her since the day she visited Daniel’s grave, and tonight she completely gives up on it, convinced that she will indeed be sick were she to lay back down. The linens are sweat-soaked anyway, just as much as her gown, and she would rather wait for the sun to announce a new day while cleansing herself from her nightmares. She warms water up for a bath, sheds her nightgown and dives into warm water and scented oils, hoping that washing her skin and hair will give her reprieve enough to stop thinking of whatever nightmares still remain. The sun will be out soon, anyway, and Regina intends to meet with her council and turn her attentions towards whatever ails the kingdom, hoping to regain a sense of herself as soon as she goes back to her work as queen.

Her breakdown by Daniel’s grave had been inevitable, she guesses. After all, a lifetime of revenge had never held the promise of having her lover back in her arms again, but she supposes an idiotic and small part of her had hoped for an exchange – Snow’s life for Daniel’s. Perhaps she had expected to simply loose the will to live once her vengeance was complete, and truth be told, she had been thoroughly tempted to use the chain holding Daniel’s ring to choke her own life away. Regina has spent too long now pushing herself away from the victimized persona many would have preferred to endure, however, and she’s not about to stop herself from the joy of being ruler of a kingdom that has no heroes to champion against her. She foresees a time of peace for them all, a new balance now that Snow is gone, and she grasps at the idea with a tight an unrelenting grip. She surmises that her happiness will begin with restfulness and peace of mind, and that once such a thing is gained, she can start making other plans. An heir, perhaps, even if not brought to life through her entrails; a recovered friendship with Maleficent, surely; and Rumpelstiltskin kept at bay now that he’s no longer needed.

That will come later, though, since other decisions are of more immediate necessity. She’s not particularly sure of what destiny the fake Prince James should have, although she is tempted to keep his heart and give him a black uniform in exchange. Nothing would make the prince more miserable than fighting in Regina’s name, she’s sure, and if he were to find a tragic death while in battle, surely Regina couldn’t be accused of breaking the pact she had brokered with Snow White. The thought makes her smile briefly, particularly since she will be bereft of a manly doll if she finally decides follow the path her instincts have been pulling her towards for the past few days. She has been toying with the idea of freeing the huntsman, heart and all, considering that Snow has been defeated now. It seems to her that his penance has been paid, and she’s not particularly sure she wants to cling to the unhealthy reliance that keeps bringing them together. She’s hoping for peace, after all, and the huntsman’s eyes rounded with accusation won’t give her any.

Despite the nightmares, Regina welcomes the light of day with perspective and tranquility. She’s stupendously tired, but she has plans for the day and determination enough to forget about whatever images her nightmares choose to torture her with. She has a heavy heart, she knows, and dancing without carrying her demons will be a hard task to achieve. She must rely on her patience, a demanding undertaking if she has ever set herself any, but she must trust her own spirit just as well, knowing by now that there will be no help forthcoming.

Thus, Regina prepares herself for her day, and so it is that fate chooses to trip her the moment she steps her way out her chambers. Right outside her door, she’s received by Rivers’ unconscious body, bound, gagged and stripped from his uniform, and even before a party of soldiers reaches her to shout the sudden news, she already knows exactly what is happening. Damn her and her good will, damn her for being gullible enough to make herself weak, and damn her huntsman and his bouts of misplaced heroics. Patience buried deep where no one can find it and peace all but ripped away from her chest, Regina shouts orders at the top of her lungs, stalking her hallways in a rage only to find soldiers dead and wounded both, and a guilty huntsman smiling at an obvious triumph. What she finds not, however, is Snow White’s prince, nor the horse he steals in his escape, or the sword he rips away from one of her favored members of the Black Guard, now dead by his hand.

Foregoing chases and searching parties, Regina instead turns to her mirror, which shows her that the prince is not yet far away that he can escape the reach of her magic. It is with a smile, then, that she lets the tingle of magic run from the back of her head all the way down to her fingers, reaching out until it touches her former prisoner, and sinks him right into the thickest depths of the Infinite Forest. The effort leaves her panting and her hands quivering with need, magic pulsing beneath her skin and expecting further release now that it has been called forward with such impulsive strength. Rather than reel it back, Regina frees it with a surge of white hot delight travelling up from her gut, and throws the powerful blast right into the huntsman’s frame, smirking when the back of his head cracks against the wall and leaves a trail of blood behind as he crumbles to the floor, eyes barely opened and limbs boneless, his body an unattractive heap clad in Rivers’ too big uniform.

A weakened groan comes from him as Regina approaches him, the predator that he has awakened in her prowling contentedly before her beaten prey. Foolish huntsman full of foolish ideas, and if Regina didn’t know that he would rather die than keep on living heartless and trapped, she would be more than pleased to turn his heart into dust. She kneels by him instead, her fingers finding his jaw and tightening about his clammy flesh, shaking his head just because she knows it must be pounding painfully after the knock he just took.

“What foolish purpose are you hoping to accomplish, huntsman?” she questions, teeth bared before him and hot puffs of air right against his skin, their faces close enough that the huntsman’s eyes look unfocused. “Do you wish for me to kill you?”

“ _Yes.”_ And his answer is adamant, a plea as much as it is a demand, anguish so deeply rooted in the color of his eyes that Regina once again finds herself wondering how anyone lacking a heart can have such feeling still. It has been years now, and by all accounts he should be but a shell of a human.

She won’t answer his plea in kind, not when only moments before she’d been considering his liberation and he’s just betrayed her once again, whatever void that remains within his chest clamoring for him to become a helping hand in Snow White’s cause, never mind the time spent inside Regina’s bedchambers, sitting at her table, rutting between her legs.

“If you want to die, you will have to carve your heart out yourself,” she snaps, red coated nails finding the skin of his cheeks and pressing, making sure that there will be moon-shaped marks etched on his face.

He whimpers, the sound obviously involuntary, and when he tries to move forward and push her back he fails, his body tired still. He reaches up instead, his arms heavy once he grasps at Regina’s forearms with both his hands, fingers digging themselves between the folds of fabric he finds there as if he needs the help to keep them there. If his grip wants to be unforgiving he fails, managing to be nothing other than overwhelmingly warm.

“Don’t be cruel,” he whispers then, hazy blue orbs settled upon Regina’s own eyes, even when clearly unfocused by dizziness. “You’re not a monster, you–”

Regina snorts, stops his speech with a mumble of, “Now that’s a new one for you.”

“I have seen you show mercy before,” he continues, the plea laced with his words coming out in forceful gasps, if because he’s about to lose consciousness or because he hates begging Regina doesn’t know. “You’re still in there somewhere, I know,” he stops, swallows hard before he continues. “You had a heart, once, can’t yo–”

“If I ever had a heart _she_ took it from me and crushed it,” Regina intones, cutting whatever hopeful and idiot speech he was about to pronounce, whatever poetically romantic notions he may have been harboring about her while he was busy calling her a monster.

He has no more words to throw at her, and Regina suspects that he’s nearing delirium anyway. His fingers keep moving against the fabric of her dress, futilely trying to climb to her shoulders while only managing to squeeze at her upper arms, the worm-like sensation almost a massage of sorts for her, while it suggests that he’s simply trying to bring feeling back to numb limbs. She should let him slip into unconsciousness, throw him in a cell in the dungeons and think of him no more. Yet, she can’t. Whatever hold he has on her she can’t quite understand, but even through his latest betrayal she desperately wants to keep him close, branded as hers, shamed by the mark of being the Evil Queen’s pet. She brings her free hand up to his chest, presses her palm there, against the harshness of coat of mail and the thick fabric of her uniforms, and fancies that she can feel something beating under her skin, the tendrils of a heart wanting to find its rightful place, wanting to escape the queen’s unforgiving grip. She’d lost one heart today, however, and no more will leave her prison.

“You will lack a heart for as long as you live,” she tells him, voice deceptively soft, eyes hard against his own. “You will be mine and no one else’s, miserable for as long we both live; and if you dare find even just a shade of mild joy in your sadly bereft existence, _then_ I will turn your heart to dust.”

He laughs, and his laughter is broken and raw, resignation pouring out of him when he leans forward once again, this time not to push her away but to nestle himself against her. His cheek lands against her shoulder, and suddenly his damp and rapid breaths hit the skin of her collarbones, travel up her neck. The back of his head gets exposed to her, and she eyes brown and curly hair matted by drying blood with mild disgust, the metallic scent unpleasant and bringing bitter memories of mother’s intimidating magic back to the forefront of her mind. She pushes them away, and traps the huntsman in a faux embrace when she lets her hand follow a path from his chest and all the way to the back of his neck, where a thin trail of blood stains the skin as well. It’s not a terrible wound, but it looks ugly enough, and she’s surprised that he remains conscious still. He is, however, at least enough that he moves his hand too, leaving the compulsive clutching of her upper arm to fall down her collarbones and chest, groping ineffectively at her breast before he finds the heaving flesh exposed by her tight corset and rests his own palm against the bones that hide her own heart. Unwittingly, one of his fingers hooks around the chain of Daniel’s ring, and she hisses at the contact.

“What did she ever do to you?” he croaks against the hollow of her neck, his beard scratching softly at her when he moves his mouth.

Regina chuckles humorlessly, her hand leaving the back of his neck so she can press her knuckles softly against his cheek, the caress surprisingly soft. There’s cold sweat layering his skin, and yet his forehead feels feverish, the heat emanating from him nearly suffocating.

“Everything,” Regina tells him, her voice now ever lower, intimate in the space they have created between them. She laughs again, and the sound is like breaking glass. “Or maybe nothing at all. No one has asked me before. You pointed your fingers and called me evil, raised your flags and called Snow White your hero.”

“But she is, isn’t she? She will save us all.”

“Is that truly what you believe, huntsman? You think her prince will wake her, and then what? That they will storm the castle together and rescue you in a feat of wonderful heroics?” she wonders, scorn in every word, contempt at the simple thought of whatever fantasy the huntsman is harboring, of whatever truth he’s made himself believe. She toots, like a tutor would when scolding a silly child on absurd notions, and her caress becomes unwittingly harsher, her knuckles on his skin more punishing than calming. Then, she says, “My dear, don’t you know? They have already forgotten about you.”

He looks up at that, or least tries to, the movement of his neck causing him to grimace and fall back against her, as if he’s impossibly and permanently drawn to stay within her arms. The hand he’s resting against her breastbone tenses up for a moment, but soon looses any sign of strength, falling limply on the bulky skirts at her lap at the same time he breathes out from his mouth, hot air accompanied by a nearly silent groan. She smiles the tiniest bit and presses a hand to the back of his head, right above the wounded skin, petting him as if he were but the most loyal of companions.

“Dear, I will make you a deal,” she says, a thoughtful and amused hum following her statement. “If the charming prince manages to make his way out of the Infinite Forest and wakes my princess up, then I will put your heart back and release you, so long as any of them or their allies show even a bit of interest in saving you from your prison. A message, a command, goodness, a goddammed _bird_ with a thought given to you and you will be free.”

“You are so sure it won’t happen.”

“Of course I am. Even heroes need stepping stones, and you make for such a pretty one.”

She means to say more, to taunt him with a truth that she knows to be certain. Has she not been in the huntsman’s shoes herself, after all? Has she not been an unwilling prisoner of privilege and power for years upon years? She may not have dwelled in dungeons and held in chains, but her prison has been far more unforgiving, if only because it had never been viewed as such. Marrying King Leopold had been an honor, after all, and Regina’s unhappiness nothing if not her own doing, her own difficult temperament refusing such a precious gift. No one had saved her, though, and no one will be saving the huntsman either. Before she can tell him as much, though, he surges forward abruptly, whatever energy he has left forcing her backwards with the impulse until she falls into a sitting position on the floor, her knees giving up under the sudden onslaught. She gasps through lips that had been parted and ready to speak, and then she finds herself being kissed, the huntsman’s dry and too warm lips pressing insistently against hers, somehow pleasant despite everything that screams at her that it should not be so. He burns hot against her, fever rather than passion, and he only breaks away when a wolf howls in the distance.

A quiet sigh against lips close enough to almost be touching still, and Regina says, "I had such high hopes that the beast had finally found its death."

The wolf hasn't been heard of or seen for months now, after all, not since the first time the huntsman had fallen prey to Regina's bed, as if finding pleasure somewhere within her had convinced the vexatious creature that his master was completely lost to a world of darkness. This afternoon it howls once more though, the wind carrying the sound until it echoes inside the walls of Regina's bedchambers, surrounding them as if an omen of death. And perhaps it is, an uncanny harbinger of the war that will come if Snow White is indeed fated to be awakened by True Love's Kiss, only one more sign of blood to be spilled, much like the changing tides of the seas that Nubia had warned her from, like Maleficent's voice taking on an occult melody warning of tragedies to come, like the death-like whispers of the Dark Curse pounding against Regina's ears, like an apple tree offering but one healthy fruit in a season of rot.

Regina swallows, and she finds that it is difficult for her, her mouth suddenly dry with the echoes of the beast's cries reverberating still, and with the weight of the huntsman's weary body between her arms. Nonetheless, she murmurs, "What a loyal companion you have."

The answer comes in rough strokes, in truths hidden away under shame and distaste, under defeat and submission. "I am all he knows," the huntsman begins, his hand once again travelling up Regina's form, from her lap and over her stomach, past her ribcage and over the valley of breasts, until its resting right over her heart. "I could beat him, and threaten him; I could be the cruelest master, and in the end he would still vow to me, he would still..." He lingers, his voice lost and treading the edges of feverish delirium.

Regina understands, understands like only a prisoner might, like only one hankering for love from within the walls of a dark and dank cellar can, and so her next words are but a murmur, a soft caress freely given upon the huntsman's temple, "Am I all you know, huntsman?"

"There is nothing else, Your Majesty."

"Is that why you fight me so? You want me angry so I will let you rest?"

" _Yes."_

Regina turns to him then, the smile she presses upon his skin turning into a kiss, his forehead febrile under her lips. He sighs, as if the caress of cool lips is indeed the solace he needs, and the only kind of permission he was waiting for before giving into the illness claiming his mind. He closes his eyes and Regina fancies that she can feel his eyelashes against the skin of her cheeks, flushed as much as his own by now. She brings him closer on instinct, cradles his face against her chest intimately, and shushes him during the short moment it takes him to let unconsciousness do its job. His body slumps against hers once he's completely passed out, a last sigh escaping his parted lips, and Regina remains with him for long moments after.

The prince is gone now, and if the fates continue to favor Snow then he will undoubtedly find her - Snow White and her prince the shepherd, and of course the indulged little princess would get Regina's fantasy wrapped up in the lie of royalty, succeeding were Regina had once failed. Oh, but if only Daniel had been a king, if only someone had changed Regina's own pauper into a prince. Old tales don't speak of stories like Regina's, though, and so she must write her fate by her own hand. A war will come, she's sure, but if the huntsman in her arms has bent to her will, he who knows her with the intimacy of a lover and despises her with the hatred of the worst of enemies, then surely a kingdom will be no challenge at all, even with Snow White leading the charge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) We can take a walk.  
> (2) I thought you might come here.


	9. Part IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW1: Mentions of past marital rape and past emotional abuse.
> 
> TW2: The farther this goes the more it deals with Regina's Evil Queen tendencies, so canon compliant type of violence and abuse; a little more violent than canon, actually.
> 
> TW3: While I've defined the Hunstman/Regina relationship as consensual up to this point, it does deal with obvious power imbalance and emotional abuse.
> 
> \---
> 
> Translations at the end, as always.
> 
> AN1: The events happening here are canon compliant to the best of my abilities, but I'm not taking into account whatever canon has been put forward after the end season 4 (like, jfc, the Count of Monte Cristo? Are these guys for real?)
> 
> AN2: It's been a long time, but I'm still here, and this story is still happening! As it turns out, I was promoted a few months back (which, yey!), but workload has been massive lately, and now I'm travelling a lot, so I just don't have much time. Hopefully, it won't take me as many months to post the next part, which will be the last part before the curse is cast, and we head to Storybrooke. :)
> 
> AN3: Thanks, btw, to everyone who has shown interest in this story during the hiatus!

A year passes, and it is a year of blood and grime, war sweeping through the lands with the strength of a thousand armies and the conviction of two women battling each other with the burden of an age old grievance. It is an angry time, one that leaves no space to breathe or think, plagued by the noblest acts of heroics and the most vicious of human cruelties both, each side suffering losses and gaining victories equally, forever submerging the realm in a standstill that keeps claiming blood to feed itself. It is war indeed, sparked under the light magic of a True Love’s Kiss, and brought forward by the dark magic of an Evil Queen spurned by an unwavering wish for revenge owed and finally fought for in an open field. There are no secrets left to tell, after all, and no hopes for truces to be had, and so Snow White and the Evil Queen face each other without doing it at all, pushing armies and weapons between them, drawing closer to each other with each day that passes but never quite close enough to end the bloodshed. They consume the lands betwixt them, Regina with fury and hatred bred and polished through years of starving grief, and Snow with the sanctimonious longing of a reluctant hero thrown into warfare through wishes not her own.

Regina learns quickly that war is far from the grand pursuit spoken of by tongues and writings of the past, and that high-minded gallantry is but an accident happening in the midst of desperation and exhaustion. Be it in the battlefield or in the secluded chambers of a war council, tediousness is as bound to conquer her as anxiety, both sensations pervaded by a near constant sense of frustration. She had thought their battle would be short, brutal and easily won, and the fact that it has become anything but keeps baffling her every day that passes. After all, George and Midas had been quick to join her forces, and their combined armies, gold and magic should have sufficed them to destroy the threat to their crowns with quiet and swift efficiency. Instead, they had found themselves with kingdoms divided by split claims to the throne, nobility and peasantry alike choosing a side and picking up a fight with conviction and without regret. Thus, for every corner of their kingdoms that chooses to support them, another denies them with equal fervor, turning their lands into chaotic ruin.

Regina finds true loyalty north of her kingdom, whatever uprising the past years may have seen from the region now forgotten under Duchess Adela’s rule as warden. The lands that had formerly belonged to King Charles bring unwavering fealty just as well, the late king’s widow forever grateful of Regina freeing her from the man, and the territory having flourished under their joint efforts. Many a nobleman rallies behind Regina, whatever offenses she may have committed against the elite with her scorn and capriciousness forgotten when faced with the prospect of losing a ruler with a sound mind for business and a cruel streak reserved only for those following Snow’s flag. Yet it isn’t enough, not when most commoners and an equal share of noblemen join Snow White with a cry of hope and accusations as old as Regina’s rule, fingers pointing at her and calling her _witch_ , memories of disease running rampant through the land and Regina’s severe measures turning her into a priestess of death, viciousness etched into her features and rumors spread making her into the epitome of all evil, her deals with the darkness claimed to be but premonitions of the ruination of the kingdom. It seems that many would rather die before they remain under her governing hand, and to those who wish with such unwise minds, Regina is more than happy to oblige.

For all that she’s the one carrying a terrible title above her shoulders, however, the uprising proves that George’s tyranny must surely be of equal force, for many within his kingdom take the chance to rally behind Snow and the so labeled Prince Charming, dismissing rumors of his fake claim to the throne in favor of the possibility of seeing George’s head on a pike. The man has the gall to appear surprised when faced with such accusations of inhumanity, and Regina takes secret pleasure in berating him for the act.

“Don’t pretend to be anything else but what you are, dear George. It is thoroughly unbecoming; and in a man your age, too.”

George’s scowl is a permanent fixture on his face these days, and Regina’s gentle teasing does nothing to appease him, the sight of her smirk usually enough to deepen the wrinkles marring his brows. Regina can’t help herself, however, not when diversions are so rare and when she’s forced into sharing the man’s company for hours on end, both of them being constantly reminded of the adamantly honest proposal the man had issued at Regina’s celebratory ball. It seems that he truly believes himself in love with her, and Regina muses that it would be just her luck to be able to inspire love in no one but King George, a man so inadequate for the task that the idea seems ludicrous altogether. Nonetheless, Regina plays her games, and she plays them with ease and delight, her hands lingering a tad too long on George’s arm after they’ve landed in companionable complicity, her smiles coy and knowing, half blushing bride and half temptress, her chest on display and brushing as if by accident against the man. It’s almost offensive how most of her usual tricks fail to make the man tick, his demeanor cold and aloof when most men would drool at the sight Regina offers, while raging hot in different instances. Regina soon discovers that the man’s love, if she dares call it such, only comes to play when Regina carelessly alludes to sexual encounters with any other person, jealousy the most prevalent form of anger settling on the man’s shoulders. And oh, how silly of her to have thought that man may have loved her, when it is so very obvious that all he desires is to possess her. She supposes there must be a thrill in the idea of owning the Evil Queen.

Her Military Advisor cautions her on playing her games heedlessly, the loss of George as an ally one they can’t afford. Regina knows it, but then she also knows George finds himself in the exact same position, bound to her for as long as their kingdoms rally behind Snow White and her prince.

“Trust me, duke,” she intones in order to quiet down the Advisor’s worries. “George hates his fake son much more than he could ever hate me.”

If such a statement is true, however, then it is not so when it comes to their lands, for if Snow White was loved before, then the sudden support of her valiant prince only makes her all the more enticing. A prince by her side means a promise of marriage and children, of a dynasty built on the ashes of a queen that killed her husband and has no heir. If Regina has ever thought about accepting George’s marriage proposal, then it has been at her maddest, imagining them both as step-mother and surrogate father joined together by hatred towards their unruly children, the cruel and dark counterpart to heroes built on hope and the light magic of their True Love’s Kiss. There is most certainly an obvious poetic appeal to the matter, but thankfully enough, Regina is not so far gone so as to give to impulses so demented.

Whatever the case may be, Regina finds that she can’t entirely blame the kingdom for falling under the lure of Snow White and Prince Charming, no matter how bitter the thought may be. That everyone would choose a woman with a man at her side over a widow isn’t surprising, but then Regina believes that it is not such pedestrian frenzy that has taken over the kingdom, but rather that their crowned hero is pure and light enough to share such rarity as True Love. Legends of old speak of it as the purest of magic, only possible within the brightest of hearts, and so it is only further proof of Snow’s right to claim the throne, the princess with true love in her heart surely destined to battle the sovereign seat away from the witch with a blackened soul and only the darkest of magic. Months before, Regina might have laughed at such claims, for even while intellectually aware of the power of a True Love’s Kiss, even while knowledgeable in the kind of magic capable of breaking all curses, she had dismissed it as barely more than luck brewed between two people with no true claim to powerful spell. But then – well, then she had _felt_ it.

Across the boundless lands of the Infinite Forest, miles and miles away from Regina’s palace and buried under the thick cover of green and snowed over trees, Prince Charming had kissed Snow White, and Regina had _felt_ it. Magic so warm yet so unfamiliar that it had crawled unpleasantly up her arms and down her spine, pressing fingers made of bright light into her chest and forcing it to expand beyond its reach, to pulse from within with unbridled and unadulterated power. The magic of the spell had clashed against her own with the fury of the titans of old, as if daring her body to hold onto her natural darkness, prickling at her insides until her skin had felt as if unable to contain her. It had brought her to the ground, the crack of knees against cold marble harsh and loud yet impossible to feel over the overwhelming touch of Snow’s final victory. For what else could it be, if Snow would dare beat her in the realm of magic, where Regina’s power is firm and capable, where it is her control that proves stronger?

Father had found her long hours into the night, her figure surely a pathetic sight as she continued to kneel, one hand pressed into her chest as if trying to keep her heart from leaping away. Magic had been waging war within her, the lightness of the spell that had broken the Sleeping Curse filling her up, as if in opposing mockery of the magic of Rumpelstiltskin’s Dark Curse, which had for so long tried to empty her out of any purity that might be left within her. The light had been no better than the darkness, though, pressing at her with unnatural ease, molding itself to her body and crawling into the marrow of her bones as a slippery creature, as foreign to her as any magic bred outside her own fingers. It had left her breathless, and for the first time Regina had understood the passion that Snow was capable of rallying in her followers, the all-consuming lightness that was but a fine line away from complete darkness.

She had been no better than a shaking leaf dangling through the punishing wind for hours still, not even father’s soothing voice, usually so powerful, managing to rip her away from the all-encompassing power pulsing still at the corners of her eyes, tearing itself a place somewhere within the confines of her heart. It was par for the course, then, that it had been Rumpelstiltskin who had woken her numbed senses up, his sudden visit crowned with giggles and mockery, an unspoken _I told you so_ written in the tales he’d spun for her that fateful night. Regina hadn’t even mustered an ounce of the effortless anger the imp always brought forward, and had done little more than sneer at his words and bid him goodbye with eyes closed and a sigh parting her lips. Any other attempts at unlocking her limbs and her senses both had failed disastrously – a broken mirror little comfort for her mangled nerves, and the smugness written on the corner of the huntsman’s smile enough that Regina had slapped him when she had figured that a romp in bed wouldn’t do the trick either.

These days she doesn’t think much about it, not when the world is bereft of beauty and time stumbles its way forward in between battles and confusion, hunger and fear, and yet, somehow, in between quiet hope and blunt determination just as well. _And yet_. And yet the thought persecutes her, tingles through the quietness of the night and its long and heavy hours, unwanted and unpleasant, but steadfastly brilliant. True Love’s Kiss, the magic that will never belong to her, and that may just bring her downfall about – for fate has always favored the bold and the fearless, and what can possibly be braver than defeating the Evil Queen with the power of love imbued in magic, than claiming victory over a soul destroyed because her own love was nothing if not weakness?

 

* * *

 

As if the skies themselves were conquered by the heat of war, the summer announces itself with a hot spell that makes coat of mail feel heavier than it already is, and that makes marches through the lands all the slower by sheer power of its torridness. The colors accompany the season just as well, and so it is a sweltering late afternoon that sees Regina leaving the Council Room with a pounding headache, the deep pinks and oranges giving way to the night up above seeming as red as the freshest of bloods to Regina’s tired senses. She touches her fingers to her brows and does her best effort at ignoring both the heat and the view, her eyes pinched close together as she takes long strides in the direction of her bedchambers. She needs neither eyes nor thoughts to cover the length of the hallways, after all, and so it is that she finds herself uttering a yelp of surprise when she collides with an unexpected obstacle. She stumbles backwards a step, and before she can recover and set herself upright, the obstacle has proffered a gasp of its own. Regina opens her eyes to see a mildly chubby lady curtsying before her, eyes shooting up to her face nervously before making their way back to the floor the instant they catch sight of Regina’s own, surely set on an angry glare.

“Do excuse me–I–I’m extremely sorry, Your Majesty. It wasn’t my intention–I–I am so deeply sorry. Please accept my apology.”

The pleading tone alone is enough to make Regina’s expression turn sour. She studies the woman for a second longer than she would wish to spend on anyone like her at all, and surmises that it must be one of her unwanted guests – a duchess, maybe, or a baroness, or a simple lady perhaps. She’s unimportant in any case, and should most definitely not be anywhere near Regina’s pathway. She’s killed people for less, certainly, but every ounce of energy that she spends on the woman seems like an ounce too much, so she barely barks an order to get out of her way, which the woman smartly enough takes as her cue to disappear as fast and quietly as her high heeled shoes allow her to. A grunt marks the return of Regina’s movement, an equally fast-paced strut that she chooses to take with her eyes open this time around, lest she finds herself inclined to dispose of any other obstacles that may happen upon her way.

A little over a year of war, and all Regina has to show for it these days are burned out lands and a palace once again conquered by the noble classes, women and children of high upbringing, as well as men too old to fight, having found their way towards the sanctuary forcibly offered by Regina’s own magnanimous and caring hands. Regina may have found it in herself to ignore them; after all, most of her time is spent either within the privacy of her Council Room, away at George’s castle or in the battlefield, but this small sized portion of the court claiming her space and silence has certainly proven to be as maddening as it was back in her days as Leopold’s young queen. She would think that the war would bring some sense to these people, but as it turns out, being away from the fray and safely absconded behind the sturdy doors of the Dark Palace has given most noblemen under her care the notion that there isn’t such a thing as war at all, but rather little else than a few skirmishes of little or no importance at all. Therefore, whenever frugality is not advised but simply enforced, Regina must deal with whispers and complaints within her very own walls, as well as absurd ideas on how birthdays and marked days should still be celebrated, never mind the closure of most commercial routes outside of the kingdom, the rise of theft, murder and general chaos, or the preoccupying lack of resources the war goes hand in hand with. So long as most these people are concerned, this war is but a vacation from day to day life, and they expect Regina to behave as the accommodating hostess and gracious queen that she has never truly been.

Worse than those who choose plain ignorance and naiveté, of course, are those who find themselves deciding they should be major players in the war being fought, rather than mere suppliers of trained and armed men and whatever stocks and means remain within their personal reserves. Most of these are those men either injured or old, all of them so convinced that their brilliant intelligence should be an obvious advantage over their enemy that Regina does find herself wanting them to drop dead whenever they deem it appropriate to approach her. Fortunately, she has found out that outright laughing at them is both humiliating for them and satisfying for her, and she has done enough of that, that her Military Advisor has simply taken the task of dealing with such men onto himself. He’d done so with a put upon sigh and a warning not to be careless, of course, but then Regina already knows the duke well enough to know he’ll never acquiesce to her tantrums without at least a hint of a scolding. She knows him well enough to know that there’s secret affection hidden in his chiding demeanor, after all, and that he fears she may irreparably hurt the egos of those she needs to win this war.

It is that very same thought that has her closing the doors to her bedchambers with an unnecessarily sharp bang, and promptly making her way towards a once upon a time plush chair in order to drop her weight down in a barely comfortable heap. She rearranges herself with mild annoyance, her fingers unconsciously finding the place by the armrest where the upholstery has been worn down by time, and where the thin threads of dark red are starting to lose their battle against the filling of the chair. The rather garish thing is a memory of a past long gone, and one of the few pieces of furniture that had survived Regina’s redecoration frenzy back when she had decided to erase the presence of her unwanted family from her dwellings. She has always been bizarrely fond of it, perhaps because it had been the one comfortable chair in the rooms Leopold had gifted her when she’d first arrived at the palace. It had certainly been a bit of an oddity, clashing in color and design with the light woods and clear blues that had conquered the rooms otherwise, and Regina had taken a liking to it as soon as one of her ever-changing lady’s maids had explained that it had belonged to one of Leopold’s old aunts, the despairingly inappropriate Millicent, who’d had a big mouth, a legendary taste for men and wine, and beauty only surpassed by her intelligence and her skill with bow and arrow. Leopold had always been fearful of Snow turning out to be a little bit too much like his dreaded aunt, the closest to a nightmare he could imagine a woman to be, and even to this day Regina doesn’t regret encouraging the princess to be exactly what Leopold had feared so.

Whatever the case may be, the chair had remained as memory of her late husband’s discomfort, as honoring of the one woman in Leopold’s family she may have dared to love had she known her, and as a reminder of her own opposition towards mother. After all, mother had been quick to wrinkle her nose at the sight of the thing right after declaring it _one of those horrible family heirlooms Leopold is too much of a coward to get rid of_ , and Regina had taken great pleasure in having the power to keep it for herself. These days, though, it seems that not even the spirit of the lively Millicent is enough to keep it from decay, much like everything else touched by the specter of the war.

Combat and bloodshed come hand in hand with poverty and need, which Regina had guessed at the moment war had been officially declared, if perhaps she had missed the scale by which to measure loss and duress. She hadn’t foreseen blight and decadence in quite the manner it has affected them, though, to the point where there is no room without signs of dust and lack of care, without peeled off paint or rundown furniture, without signs of time passed and defects never fixed. Never before has Regina seen proud and mighty noblewomen dare walk her hallways with a tear in their dresses, but these days it isn’t quite such an unusual sight. The outside doesn’t even bear thinking about, the never-ending verdant of the royal state’s forests and gardens but a sigh of what it used to be. There is simply neither time nor capital to deal with every day like activities, not when feeding every mouth within her kingdom has proven difficult for months on end now – after all, one will hardly care about a torn skirt when there’s not even a bite of bread to eat.

Such matters had been indeed what had taken most of the time of their latest council meeting, attended by herself, the members of the council and King Midas himself, an honored guest at her palace before he makes his way south, where George is currently leading his battalion fronts. Most days Midas is but a buffoon with enough sense to know his place, which is to provide gold and stay quiet, a position that George had sternly trained him to maintain many years ago, and which had made Regina almost glad to have the foolish king on her side. As it is, strife makes even the meek decide for bravery, and Midas had steadfastly tried to take charge of the meeting by way of befuddled whining.

“But we have the gold!” he’d complained adamantly, as if his curse was the solution to every problem they’re currently facing, as if buildings made of sparkling material could somehow make up for burnt up crop fields and dying workers.

Regina had entirely given up on trying to explain the situation the moment her head had started pounding uncomfortably, and so she’d saddled the Treasury Master with the churlish king, in the hopes that a man in charge of a kingdom may actually dare understand what ruling is about. Regina harbors little to no hope. Rather, she suspects that Midas’ kingdom is ruled by his own council, and perhaps, at one point, by the surprisingly sly Princess Abigail.

Fault falls on Regina’s shoulders in that particular regard, she guesses, for had she foreseen that there was more than blonde beauty and shallow bitterness to Princess Abigail, she may have just made an effort in bringing her to her fold – goodness, she may have even considered making a friend out of her. Regina had dismissed her as nothing more than another ditzy princess, however, used to riches bought by her father’s magic and unaware of the world around her, and thus of the brewing war. Instead, Princess Abigail had turned herself into a spy for Snow’s benefit. Some sort of favor owed to Prince Charming, along with simple affection for the man, had bid her to their cause despite her father’s opposing interests. Abigail had played her part carefully and for a very long time, becoming exactly what Regina had once been herself – nothing better than a wallflower, inconspicuous and lacking to everyone’s eyes, yet always at the ready with a careful ear and a sound mind. Her secret reports and warnings had caused them insurmountable loss a few months back, up to the point where Regina had thought the war lost. By the time she had realized who their mole was, the princess had run away to join Snow and Charming’s growing army, a chunk of Midas’ own following her and her secret husband, a no name soldier with more gumption than his king when it came to inspiring troops. Honestly, Regina could have killed Midas for his carelessness, but then perhaps she should blame herself for falling for tricks that had been her own not so long ago. Briefly, she thinks that she will congratulate Princess Abigail with sincere admiration before she crushes her heart to dust.

Whatever the case may be, the fact remains that all the world’s gold won’t do them any good when there’s nothing for them to bargain for. The winter had been hard on them, and by the time spring reared its head, there were no crop fields to saw and no hands to do it either, peasants having abandoned most villages but those closer to noble settlements, and armies having reaped that which they hadn’t burnt. No amount of planning had prepared them for such a long war, or for the quick and monumental loss of both provisions and routes of communication. Commercial routes with kingdoms outside of their own have been mostly closed, and while Regina’s magic can make up for some of it, there’s certainly not much she can do when it comes to feeding an idle court as well as a battling army.

The sea has been mostly lost as well, both Regina’s and George’s fleets decimated the moment Prince Eric had sworn loyalty to Snow’s cause, and so the realm’s biggest and most powerful naval force had fallen upon them with surprising strength. Half her ships had been lost on the first battle alone, and the last news she’d had from Nubia claimed no more than a dwindling third of her once magnificent fleet surviving increasingly hopeless battles. Regina wonders now if she shouldn’t have been more careful about her dealings with that little mermaid of the lost voice, but then she can’t fathom how Eric may have caught wind of her dealings with his paramour.

However, it is exactly such missteps that had forced her to open up her palace for the court seven months ago, when the letters asking for sanctuary from her kingdom’s noblemen had begun to pile up as high as a mountain at her desk. She simply could no longer afford capricious dismissal of her outspoken supporters, nor could she deny them a roof where to hide themselves away from war. She needs their armies and their provisions, their houses as military outposts, as well as their voices clamoring her name as the righteous owner of the sovereign seat. She needs them desperately in order to win this war, and for that she hates them more than she has ever before. She has fought so hard for her palace turned fortress, after all, for the right to pick and choose who inhabits her walls, for the silence that has now been stolen away from her home, and losing it all due to Snow White and her rebellious nightmare is but another sin to add to the princess’ long list of owed retributions.

Regina snarls involuntarily, pinching the bridge of her nose when her headache refuses to abate, and has the brief thought that she would take a hundred howling wolves over the sound of the court cluttering her space any day. A grunt follows as she tries to accommodate tired limbs against the worn down seat, and as she’s fidgeting, the thought of good, old Baroness Irene comes to her, unbidden. She barks out a laugh, something slightly deranged at the idea that she may have just fared better these days were she to have the old goat as buffer in between herself and the court. She can almost picture her in one of her favored puffed up organza monstrosities, décolletage entirely too inappropriate for her age, dragging some sweet young thing with her everywhere, flitting about and gossiping as if the world wasn’t raging outside this palace’s walls. Regina would have despised her for her levity, but would have played her games so the baroness spoke of her on tender terms to the court. The baroness would have made her a tragic figure, a woman overwhelmed by bloodshed and desperate to put an end to it, impossibly hurt by the thought of her former step-daughter raising her weapons against her. Yes, the baroness would have certainly painted her in the appropriate colors for the court to understand, and if anything, she would have gathered her some pity amongst the noblemen.

As it is, with no baroness of big bosom and bigger words for Regina to engage with, the court both fears her and condescends her, as well as putting the blame of the situation solely upon her shoulders. The _nerve_ of them, puny and foolish gods of meaningless titles that demand solace and yet offer nothing but disdain in return – she may as well be that same eighteen year old sad, little queen that they had dared called _exotic_ as far as they’re concerned, and the fact that Regina can’t make them kneel before her and plead for mercy so long as the war lasts, only manages to make bile rise to her throat.

Before she can drive herself into a rage that will do nothing but make her head pound with more intensity, the doors to her bedchambers open quietly, the soft footsteps of her lady’s maid and the following ones of the huntsman distraction enough that she gives up on feeling outraged altogether. She’s disproportionately tired, and while her stomach may recoil at the simple thought of the light meal her lady’s maid is already setting at the table, she thinks some food will do her good. She’s to leave the palace at first light tomorrow along with Midas, and perhaps if she washes her dinner down with enough wine she will manage to get some sleep. It will be a long ride towards the main outpost were she’s to meet with the thick of her troops as well as George’s, after all, and it’s not as if the battling that will follow her arrival will grant much time for food or sleep. _Or_ _baths,_ she thinks with a wrinkle to her nose. She may indulge before leaving, since she’s not particularly sure how long she will be gone, the weeks that follow crucial to them if they want to push Snow’s forces back and away from the main lands of the kingdom. They’re threading dangerously close to the palace as it is, so their future truly does hang on the balance of the next few bloody encounters. If they do manage to push them back, after all, they will be able to recover one of the fortresses they lost not long ago, along with its provisions, soldiers, and the surrounding crop fields and as of now abandoned forges, mills and farms, as well as one of the kingdom’s main quarries.

Thoughts of battles and the like escape her as soon as her lady’s maid’s pointed gaze settles upon her, a shade of disapproval in those small and slanted eyes of hers that never quite lose their coldness, despite her otherwise obvious care for Regina’s well-being. Regina doesn’t fight the silent command, and drags herself silently over to the table, glad that she chose a light overcoat and an even lighter dress to wear today, and that she discarded her heels by the fireplace as soon as she entered her chambers. It is said shoes that her lady’s maid busies herself with while Regina sighs her way towards the huntsman, already seated at the table himself, his eyes lost somewhere over Regina’s face and his hands resting on his lap, so still that Regina would swear they were lifeless. So much for a nice companion to her meal, but then, the huntsman has been nothing but an empty shell for months.

Regina sits down to a thin plate of leek pottage and dark barley bread, a frugal meal that would never have graced a queen’s table were the circumstances different. They’re eating the food of the poor, meat and white bread a luxury that they simply can’t afford, but so long as she enforces meager portions of indigent taste to her armies, she will share in the misery, and so will the court. She does wish clean drinking water was but a dream of the past, however. As it is, wine and ale are a safer choice these days, and at least they have the effect of lifting up the spirits. Cued by her own thoughts, she tears a small piece of bread from her plate and munches on it, willing it to go down easily, and washing it down with half a goblet of wine when it insists on sticking to her throat uncomfortably. She coughs the tightness away, and goblet still in hand, she laughs. The sound feels deranged, and she muses that it truly must be.

“It sets you free for a while,” Regina muses, licking her lips to steal the remaining taste away. “Free from yourself, free from predestination.”

She hums at the thought, scowling when it gets her no reaction. Not from her lady’s maid, busy now trying to arrange a poor set of blooming flowers as if they were something more than a wildly mismatched rescue from her overgrown gardens; and most certainly not from the huntsman. Still, it is her dinner to enjoy, and so she speaks, regardless of the apparent disinterest of her audience.

“Baroness Irene used to speak such words whenever her brother gifted her with a bottle of that terrible pinkish sweet wine she favored. She never shared, the old goat – _oh, it’s hardly good for you, my silly little darling,_ ” she mocks, a snarl painted on her face before finishing her goblet in one swift and long swallow. “Good fucking riddance.”

The huntsman flinches, and Regina wonders if it’s the swear word or the tone that gets to him, or even the clank of the goblet as she drops it back against the table. She finds that she doesn’t care very much at all, however, and simply bites back a sigh and tries to make quick work of the meal before her. She nudges at him with her foot under the table, pushing her heel against his shin to prod him into action. When he finally complies with her silent order, his movements are sluggish, the sight of his eyelids closing and opening back again with hefty slowness entirely too suffocating for Regina to bear. She turns herself away from the sight and retrieves her foot. A few months ago she may have pushed it against the inside of his thigh, she may have allowed her toes to travel up and between his legs and may have pushed there until he looked upon her smirking lips with fire in his eyes. The fire of hatred, perhaps, but certainly better than the dullness that pervades his gaze these days, the unseeing glaze of eyes that look but don’t see.

The huntsman has finally turned into the shadow he should have been from the moment Regina stole his heart, stripped of feeling and lost in a world of emptiness, and Regina finds that she can’t stand the final break of the man before her. She prods and pushes still, humiliates him with weapons used in the past, with the viciousness that she’d learnt to punish him with, but there’s nothing left of him in that limp body of his, it seems. He’d told her he knew nothing but her any longer, had demeaned himself with the confession that he belonged to her, and quickly after he’d denied her the pleasure of owning something other than a pretty yet broken toy. Aside from a moment of triumphant smugness after Snow had declared her intentions of bringing Regina’s rule down, he’s been completely lost to an ether of nothingness since then, the eyes that had surprised Regina with their range of expression in the past completely devoid of life now, and the impossible surge of passion fighting for a place inside his empty chest gone forever. It’s maddening, particularly when war between her bed sheets might be enough to quell some of her bloodlust, when honest hatred paired with honest desire may just bring her some otherwise denied solace. Alas, she has no wish to lie with what might as well be a corpse.

If she tortures herself with the presence of the huntsman at her table and within her bedchambers these days, it is honestly due to simple routine, and perhaps the latent hope that he will come back to her and be the entertaining pet he’d been in the past. She harbors little to no illusions on the matter, but then giving up on the idea will bring her no comfort, either.

She refuses herself the sigh that wants to climb up and away from her parted lips, and instead forces herself back onto the task of finishing her dinner, however lacking it may be. In between spoonfuls of weak and watery soup, she says, “A bath, dear, if you will.”

Her lady’s maid offers no answer, but even without settling her eyes on her, Regina knows she’s beginning preparations in her quiet and efficient fashion. Regina has come to appreciate her quiet woman’s ways over the years, her steady presence even managing to bring her a shade of comfort and relief, particularly back in the days when she was still Leopold’s wife. There has always been sweet reprieve in her strict silences and no-nonsense demeanor, and in the eyes that have never shown fear even before the worst of Regina’s tantrums. However, today she wishes for sound other than that of the stiflingly invasive noise of the court, and there’s no comfort to be had in her lady’s maids reserve.

She finds that quietness leads to gloom, and to unwanted thoughts of regret. Unwittingly, Baroness Irene comes back to her yet again, and with the thought of her, that of her death inevitably follows. In an unintentional gesture, Regina drops her spoon for a second and rubs her hands together, as if the memory of the woman’s blood hasn’t been quite erased, even after all these years. She can’t help herself from following the thread her traitorous mind takes her into, the one that insists on replaying the events of a day long gone and willfully forgotten.

There had been a man, that night of the Summer Festival – a man of bright blue eyes and a cheeky speech, offering a flower crown, and perhaps even more. Regina wonders at the missed chance, at the spell he had cast upon her for barely a moment, and at her own sudden desire to follow him into the thick of the forest, to run away and never look back. It had been fleeting and barely a fanciful folly, but Regina can’t help but wonder if perhaps he had been her opportunity to fight predestination, and if she had simply thrown it away with careless disregard. She hardly thinks there would have been happiness to be found in his pursuit, but Regina’s thoughts have been teasing her with such foolishness for some time now, insisting on tracing back steps taken and decisions made, unrelenting and making her question herself on just which move may have taken her down a different path, which compromise may have led her away from the road that she’s willingly walking these days.

 _What a waste of time,_ she tells herself, adamantly; how foolish to think that there was ever a road that didn’t lead to her actual predicament, and how stupidly naïve to give into the idea that she may have left revenge behind for the sake of a man, even one that had enchanted her briefly. After all, she had promised herself that she would burn whichever land or brave warrior stood between herself and Snow White, and she’s doing nothing more than following her own mind.

Her nerves are unsettled, and she realizes she’s wildly irritated by, well, possibly by everything, or perhaps by nothing at all. She hates her reflective moods, and despises how her memories threaten her with the idea of regret. She bites her lower lip viciously, willing herself to focus on anything other than despairing thoughts, and, as if on cue, the huntsman drops his spoon against an unfinished plate of probably cold pottage, dropping his weight back onto his chair in an uncoordinated slump. He’s given up entirely on putting up a front tonight, it seems, and Regina is quick to punish his apathy with a second swift kick to his leg.

“Three meals a day is more than most people are getting these days, huntsman,” she berates, her words getting lost in an abyss of emptiness. Goodness, but she has a palace full of unwanted people and yet she’s been speaking to vacant rooms for months.

With a punch of anger somewhere low in her belly, she surges forward and grabs at the huntsman’s face, her fingers about his chin in a way that is already familiar. She shakes his head vehemently, and then settles hard eyes upon his. He’s looking at her, and yet it seems as if he’s seeing nothing at all, his orbs lost to places Regina can’t reach; perhaps, she muses, to places where he can hide himself from her.

“Nothing, huh?” she murmurs, letting go of his face with a put upon sigh. “Well then, make yourself useful at least.”

Lifting herself up from her seat, and prompting her lady’s maid into gathering up the dishes left behind at her table, Regina makes her way towards the painted terracotta bathtub that has already been set for her. She heats the water with a wave of her hand, having forgone that sort of manual labor for years now. The simple spell carries with it a wave of tiredness, as if even the boundless bottom of her magical powers has been reached in the near frenzy of conjuring while in the middle of battle. A bath will do her good, then, more than war councils or meager dinners might, any case. She looks behind her, noting that her lady’s maid has already made herself scarce, and that only the huntsman remains, hands listless over his own lap and eyes settled upon them.

“Come, then,” she orders, holding the laces at the small of her back with steady fingers, and hoping that the gesture is enough for her intentions to be understood.

The huntsman complies, his steps slow to reach her and his hands soft to the point where she fails to notice them at first when they tangle with her own, relieving her of holding onto the thin shreds of fabric. He pulls at the lacing and the buttons with impossible sluggishness, as if the world moves at a completely different pace from the one he lives in. He’s clumsy about it, too, his hands unused to the complicated bindings of Regina’s clothes, their long forgotten encounters of once upon a time never quite involving the removal of more clothing than strictly necessary. How sad, she thinks, how desperately pathetic their affair feels now. To think that the populace whisper of lascivious encounters with an incalculable number of men and women, with ogres and witches and imps, with spirits of darkness and demons of beyond, and that her bed hasn’t been touched by anyone other than this hollowed out prisoner of hers for entirely too long. The thought is irritating beyond despair, and she muses that she may just kill him out of sheer annoyance if he can’t even manage to unlace her out of her dress.

 Don’t stop on my account, dearie,” Rumpelstiltskin’s voice intones all of a sudden, sound somehow invading her bedchambers even before the imp appears before her, comfortably arranged on Millicent’s old chair, legs crossed before him and boots settled on top of the small table by the unused fireplace, like a languid cat that knows himself the owner of his surroundings.

“If it’s a show you’re expecting, I fear you may have come to the wrong place,” Regina replies, a scowl marring her features as she turns towards the huntsman, still fighting a losing battle against her dress and apparently completely impassive even with the Dark One in the room. Regina slaps his hands away, and he simply drops them by his sides, a scolded child that doesn’t quite understand his crime. At the sight, Regina huffs.

“Broke your toy, did you?”

“Better broken than dead, wouldn’t you agree, dear?” Regina questions casually, acid in her tone and in the smile she throws at Rumpelstiltskin over her shoulder. His eyes narrow to thin slits at the remark, and the mild warning hidden in his impossible orbs curls pleasant satisfaction low in her belly.

Rumpelstiltskin says nothing, but he breaks his threatening stance rapidly enough, dismissing Regina’s words as he relaxes his shoulders back against the chair, a cursory air to his demeanor, that of someone who believes himself a wanted guest. And curse Regina for her weakness, but he might just be. After all, he is the one person who doesn’t wear a constant semblance of weary disapproval when gazing at her, or who isn’t drowning in pools of dull sadness. What a terrible world she must be living in, if the irritating imp is truly the best company she can hope for. Then again, she supposes he matches the décor, lavish decay as much a part of him as his flourishes and cheats.

In the face of the imp, however, the sight of the huntsman is terribly off-putting, and so she bats his hands away one last time and directs him to go away, watching him sit by the table in his lumpish manner with the shadow of a pout settled upon her lips. Then, she proceeds to forget about him as one would an uninteresting child, and turns her body and gaze towards Rumpelstiltskin, narrowing her eyes at his taking ownership of her favorite chair. Rather than berate him for it, though, she conjures two goblets of the best wine that still remains somewhere at the back of her cellar, and walks to him with measured slowness, a sway to her hips and studied coquettishness to her eyes as she lowers herself to lean against the armchair, chest and neck presented at the perfect angle for Rumpelstiltskin to admire. His own lips plump out into a smirk, always fond of this particular game, and he takes the offering for what it is, plucking a goblet from Regina’s hand as he allows himself to hide his face somewhere in the juncture of her neck and collarbones, not quite nuzzling, but close enough that warmth climbs up Regina’s skin. Regina’s magic tingles, fleetingly flirtatious in response to Rumpelstiltskin’s own. She allows the feeling to tempt her for the brief space of a blink, and then tears herself apart from him jerkily, twisting her pretty smile into a snarl.

“Now get out of my chair, imp.”

Rumpelstiltskin giggles, as if impossibly amused by her antics, and answers her command by leaning back once again and patting his own thigh with his palm, inviting.

Regina rolls her eyes in a conscious effort to make her disdain known, and says, “Be serious, now. We’re at war; amusement seems entirely too inappropriate, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Ah yes, of course, the war. And how is that going for you, Your Majesty?”

“I’m positive you already know that,” Regina snaps, turning away from him and towards her vanity, throwing a yearning yet brief look to her filled bathtub. It forces a scowl back between her eyes, and reminds her of the not quite gone pounding of her head.

Sitting down in front of her mirror, and idly searching for cloth and the last of her water lily juice to begin removing her light makeup, she murmurs, “Don’t speak of a war that you refuse to help me win.” Forlornness touches her tone, Rumpelstiltskin’s utter refusal to offer a hand in the matter one more dagger casually dug into her back. After all, just because they tease and play like the cruelest of children, aiming at tender spots with vicious precision, she sees no reason for him to wish her in row for execution and Snow White with a crown above her pretty curls. 

“Not refuse, if I recall,” he replies, a complacent touch to the smile she spies through her mirror.

He’s right, of course, since every request for help she’d humiliated herself enough to utter during the past year, had simply been answered with the condition of a deal made. A deal asking for Daniel’s ring in exchange, however, which seems to Regina like nothing but a more merciless way of punishment than simple refusal might have been. He knows she won’t give it up, and even now, the mere thought has her twisting her fingers around the old chain, pulling until the ring is resting against her palm, a promise and a reminder both, broken hearts and bloodshed wrapped around the metal once meant to make her a wife, if not a queen. It feels cold against the palm of her hand, so she closes her fist around it, willing it to warm up.

Silence settles between them, and Regina allows herself the momentary weakness of thinking of Daniel, painting his face in wide strokes inside her mind’s eye, making an effort to evoke the amused warmth of his beautiful eyes. It gets harder every day that passes to summon into mind anything other than the memory of his death, and she despairs at the thought that she should be doomed to repeat that night over and over while everything else gets lost in the abyss of a past long gone.

Regina pushes the thoughts away with stubbornness, opening up her eyes and dropping the ring back under her clothes. She concentrates back on her face instead, her hands moving in familiar motions as she carefully removes dark reds and soft beiges from the lines of her face. She hears Rumpelstiltskin moving behind her, even catches his figure somewhere at the corners of her mirror, but she ignores him altogether, removing her masks without fear of what he might see. The freshness of the water lilies helps her pulsing head, and soon she’s freed herself from every trace of color, leaving behind nothing but her clean features. She purses her lips at her own reflection. She’s still beautiful, she muses, if her complexion far too pale to be healthy and her cheeks sharper than she likes them, the shadows of wrinkles beginning to etch themselves permanently at the corners of her eyes and mouth. It occurs to her that the war must surely be aging her prematurely, and that she’s probably not alone in such a predicament. The huntsman certainly has gained at least a decade for every day passed on the last year, every sign of youth gone from his poise and face. And then there’s the imp, surviving them all with the very same absurd hair he wore when he first appeared before Regina, his eyes still confounding and his step still spry. How perplexing a thought.

“Have you heard the tales, dearie?” Rumpelstiltskin says all of a sudden, appearing behind her and making her flinch.

“Which tales?”

He smirks knowingly, the gesture slow to take shape on his lips as he sways back and forth on his own heels, like a kid who has secretly stolen a piece of candy. “Rumors say you started this war because you think Snow White is prettier than you.”

A sudden laugh escapes her, a tinkling cackle that sounds too loud against her own ears, and that curves her lips up into an attractive smile. For attractive it is indeed, even with her skin more ash than gold, and with a scar marring her otherwise unmarked features. Amused, yet somewhat put upon, she states, “Of course a war between women would be made into a contest of vanity.”

“It has a nice ring to it, though, don’t you think?” he says, his own laughter rounding the sound of his voice. Looking up briefly and then down at her eyes through the mirror, he sing-songs, “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?”

 _I am,_ she determines, the thought unwitting and precipitous in its nature, so much so that she has to bite her lip not to utter it out loud. It’s a foolish idea spurned by a foolish falsehood, beauty a faraway concern in the battle against her step-daughter. Something rings unexpectedly unpleasant at the back of her head, however, a bitter taste at the tip of her tongue at the layered truths hiding behind the absurdity of such whispers, for sharp tongues may speak of beauty, but perhaps they speak of something else entirely just as well. After all, they look at Snow White and see what they wish – a fearsome leader, hope wrapped up in candid honesty and kindness, a champion of love. What _do_ they see when they look upon Regina’s face, though? What about her is so deadly wrong that alluring features bring forth no such considerations? After all, she doesn’t wear her darkness upon her skin; she’s no imp of golden scales and stormy eyes, no dragon absconded under human flesh, no deformed troll or monstrous ogre. But then she’s the Evil Queen, she supposes, ugly before a world that deemed her worthless even before it called her evil.

Laughter lost and mood sunk into unforeseen tribulation, she stands up abruptly, shying away from her own reflection and bringing her hands together, nails digging into her own skin as if in need of scratching a sudden itch. Rumpelstiltskin giggles close to her ear, as if she’s finally caught on the joke and he’s happy that it’s on her.

“She’s not prettier,” she breathes through tightly pressed lips, anger quickly substituting frustration as she continues to say, “She’s not smarter, nor better, nor–nor _worthier._ ”

“Ah,” Rumpelstiltskin exclaims, lighting up with excitement as he jumps before her, cloying her space and easily trapping her against her vanity. “You’re not still tickled by that True Love’s Kiss, are you, dearie?”

Regina thinks of a princess then, a princess that had loved a common boy, and who had believed with every fiber of her being that their love would be enough to conquer a world that held no kindness. Regina thinks then of a heart turned to dust, and in the same instant, of the light magic of a kiss swallowing her up and rupturing her insides, punching her gut with foreign and uncomfortable magic. There had been two princesses, though, and therefore two endings to the story, fate deeming one deserving of a shepherd turned prince, and the other worthy of no such benevolence.

“A stroke of luck, at best,” she croaks, dismissing despairing thoughts by turning her anger towards her present torturer. “Or perhaps something different altogether, hmm? Do you have something to confess, Rumpel? After all, it seems unlikely that the shepherd found his way out of the Infinite Forest all by himself.”

“A deal is a deal.”

Breathing out forcefully, Regina pushes her hands against Rumpelstiltskin’s chest, trying to move past him while averting her eyes, afraid of what the imp may spy in her gaze, and in features that she’d so carelessly rid of make-up. He gives her no reprieve, though, and fights her until he has her wrists tightly wrapped within his hands and bent behind her back, teeth bared before her in a predatory smile, their struggle the faux embrace of passionate lovers. There is no love to be had between them, however, and passion is but a mockery of what lovers share, magic and violence making up for devotion and ardor.    

He lets go of her after offering her a maddening grin, leaving behind the shackle-like imprint of his fingers on the fragile skin of her wrists as a reminder of how easily he can overpower her. The weight of his magic doesn’t leave her quite yet, though, and it presses against her shoulders even as she leans back against the vanity, making a show out of her indifference. If the touch of his spell had been a breath of flirtatiousness a moment before, now it is a tight rope coiling itself about her, tangible yet invisible fingers that slither about her like a snake. Stopping herself from gagging is a nearly impossible effort, magic that speaks of predestination never quite as unconquerable as when Rumpelstiltskin is near. It never fails to make her want to give up entirely, to forget about a war of impossible outcome and whatever backlash may follow in favor of his designs and instructions. It makes her feel silly, truly silly, to have ever harbored thoughts of escaping Rumpelstiltskin’s ways by any choice made in the past, much more so when such a choice might have been something as stupid as running away with a man with a talent for archery and no other known merit. She supposes, if there was ever a chance not to end up tangled up in Rumpelstiltskin’s web, Maleficent might have been a better choice altogether. Perhaps, though, there’s never been a way out for her other than death.

Regina turns around, hiding herself from Rumpelstiltskin’s knowing eyes so as to escape despair and defeat. There is no such thing as destiny, she tells herself, for surely she knows better than to give a sacred and ominous name to what is nothing but Rumpelstiltskin pulling the strings and cheating her steps, drawing a path before her and then tempting her into following it. In a huff, she pushes her hair out of her face and behind her ears in a nervous gesture, catching sight of the huntsman in her efforts to ignore the imp. Goodness, but she’s surrounded by enemies even within her own walls.

“Now tell me, Rumpel,” she begins, hoping to get this over with and take that bath after all, even if it seems like too much to wish for. “Is there a reason for this visit at all, or is it that you don’t you have anyone else to harass these days?”

His answer is a ridiculous little jump that makes her snort inelegantly, and that finishes with a flourish and a spark of magic which leaves behind a small box. He curtsies, leg shot forward and head bowed respectfully, another sham to add to his mocking. Wary of any box Rumpelstiltskin may offer her, Regina eyes it from a distance, pressing her lips together when she spies the design, a small carved heart painted in pale pink immediately informing her of its origins. Let never be said that mother is anything if not persistent.

“I truly do wonder at what it is that mother holds over your head that you allow her to make you her messenger, imp,” Regina intones, nose shooting upwards in a mildly disgusted gesture. “I don’t want it.”

Not that she has wanted any other thing that has come from mother for years, of course. Whatever it is that she hopes to accomplish by badgering Regina with random offerings Regina can’t guess at, but she’s certain that she must fight temptation and not give into the silent reminders mother continues on sending her way, always via Dark One. Reminders that she’s still out there, alive and attentive, that she hasn’t forgotten the daughter that has forsaken her so, that her touch is boundless and unavoidable, that she holds power still – power to hurt and manipulate and promise and twist, power that Regina knows she can’t fight if only she gives but an inch.

She’s fighting a war, and whatever mother may want with her must be deemed unimportant. She must fight the pull, the brush of temptation from a mother long gone who would probably be disappointed at the way she’s handling herself as of late – all terrible habits and loss of control, unladylike in her mannerisms towards the court and her armies, frustratingly mediocre in her endeavors to kill and conquer. Regina twists her lips into a snarl and mutters a silent curse when Rumpelstiltskin fails to listen to her wishes and steps closer to her, pressing his chest against her back and curling an arm around her, so the box remains on his hand but is now presented before her eyes.

“You might want to take a peek at this one,” he singsongs, a following giggle lingering uncomfortably against her ear.

“I don’t want it,” she repeats.

“Are you quite sure about that, dearie?”

It must be a joke, she thinks, one of those provocations he’s so fond of, surely nothing of importance. Yet, to this day, Regina doesn’t remember Rumpelstiltskin insisting that she open mother’s presents, his own mysterious relationship with her somehow stopping him from using her influence above Regina beyond the occasional sharp barb. She’s always held the secret belief that the imp must somehow and for some reason be wary of mother himself, whatever undisclosed truths their past together hides keeping him as distanced from her as possible, if not at all.

“What is it?” Regina questions, swallowing a sudden lump stuck somewhere on her throat and looking back at him, eyes wide and abruptly vulnerable. “What it is, Rumpel?” A croaky sound, a sign of mother’s true power – for even realms away, she can make the almighty Evil Queen feel like a fearful nine year old who has just broken a jar of strawberry jam.

Rumpelstiltskin doesn’t answer, just shrugs uncomfortably, and so Regina doesn’t fight the impulse anymore. She takes the wooden box with hands that she refuses to allow to shake, and opens it with her heart hammering painfully inside her chest, fearing the unknown with the breathlessness of a scared little girl. Inside it, she finds a pin. The sight prompts a wheezing laugh, short-lived and nearly silent, _desperate_.

Regina moves away from Rumpelstiltskin as she takes it out, and the moment she finds it resting against her palm her breath leaves her all over again. It is a pin, indeed, the silver shaft twisted at its thinner end, and the filigree adorning the head smoothed out both by use and age. It’s not particularly expensive-looking, and yet Regina knows it comes from the hand of a king, for father used to tell her about his tenth birthday all the time, when grandfather Xavier had pinned the ornament on his lapel with a proud smile that he reserved only for the most honorable of moments. Father liked to speak of how not ten minutes after receiving the gift, he’d tripped with the particularly long train of an old duchess’ dress, and of how he’d face-planted against a creamy honey cake, the smile adorning his face as he weaved his tale always so amused that Regina couldn’t help but laugh along with him. For as long as she’d known him, father had worn the pin over the lapel of his overcoat, the one single concession to his noble upbringing that he had never given up, even when further presents of more ornamental and expensive adornings from Regina’s hands had been forgotten and never used.

 "It feels so heavy,” Regina murmurs, breathily, stupidly dumbfounded.

Then, she closes her hand about the pin, feeling the twisted end pierce her skin and draw blood, the sudden burst of pain the only thing she feels before she collapses against her vanity, her arm holding her up out of sheer instinct. Still the floor seems unstable to her, like viscous jelly that refuses to hold her up, and the only thing that stops her from falling to her knees is a body at her back, arms encircling her and keeping her upright. She thinks it must be Rumpelstiltskin, but the lack of magic in the air tells her that he’s already gone, a coward leaving behind anguish and destruction. No, her savior smells of fur and sweat, his hands far too warm against Regina’s own arms. She fights the hold, but soon gives up when she realizes her strength has left her, whatever has remained only letting her clutch tighter and tighter at the pin against her palm, making the piercing wound deeper by the second. The huntsman shushes her, mutters a wildly distraught _Your Majesty,_ and Regina laughs, her senses gone with her strength, her mind miles away, lost to memories long past.

Finally, she opens up her hand, stares at the bloodied silver resting against her palm, feels the gaping wound as the symbol that it is – that of a pierced heart, which mother is ever so good at tearing apart.

“Mother,” she gasps, “Oh, mother, what did you do?”

 

* * *

 

Three days after rescuing father, Regina’s still shaking. Her hands, mostly, she notices, fail at staying still even as Regina forces blunt nails into her own palms, hoping to balm her nerves with pain if nothing else will do the trick. It’s useless, however, and so her hands shake irremediably, weakness seeping into her every pore even as she stands within the walls of her own palace, and far away from the overreaching hands of the Queen of Hearts. _Mother’s hands,_ she forces herself to think, careful not to give her more power than she already has by conjuring her as the legend she has created for herself.

Three days after rescuing father, Regina still can’t bring herself to care about the war she’s losing, or about whatever it is that has been going on during the fortnight that it has taken her to bring father back to where he belongs – by her side and nowhere else in the world. Even now, she can still feel the world sinking beneath her feet, the desperate airiness that had conquered her from the moment the slave in her mirror had failed to locate father. And Regina had known, of course she’d known the moment father’s pin had rested against her palm that he was long gone and trapped by mother in the faraway lands of a different realm, but she’d screamed at her mirror anyway. She’d yelled at the huntsman just as well, had escaped the grip he’d had on her even on unsteady legs, and had scorned him for daring to try and provide comfort where there could possibly be none. She’d bellowed angry calls at Rumpelstiltskin, too, hollers that had inevitably turned to faltering sobs when she’d received no answer from the devilish imp, whatever deal he’d brokered with mother obviously made to deny her assistance in the matter of her father. She’d wailed then, alone, _truly alone_ and with no sympathetic ears, not in this world blazing with war and with no time to spend on an old and foreign prince turned valet by his own wishes and means.

Lost and defeated, Regina had denied herself the relief of giving up. Instead, she had demanded that which she couldn’t afford, and had ignored her council and her allies both, the duke’s advice, Midas’ pleas and George’s disdain falling short at claiming her attention when all she could feel was the erratic beating of her own heart, missing a piece that she had always taken for granted – for daddy was hers, only hers and forever hers, by choice, and so long as he remained in mother’s grasp, she would not rest. Years spent in silent grief had allowed her to bury her own feelings deep inside her heart, however, at least long enough to gather her wits and find her way towards father’s whereabouts.

It had taken her a few days of books, potions and frustration marked by broken mirrors, burnt pages and forgotten meals before she had remembered the portal jumper, the memory of him stale and still tasting bitter. She’d found him with more ease than she’d expected, a little less cocky than she recalled, a lot poorer, and with a bargaining chip and weakness so obvious in the little girl that he’d called his daughter that Regina had even laughed her way through the tricks and shadows that she’d played in order to ensure his help. Help he’d provided in exchange of money, useless to him even when he’d built his little cottage far away enough from her kingdom that he’d been lucky enough to remain untouched by the blithe of war. After all, money couldn’t do much for him, not when he’d been left behind in Wonderland as reward for his idiocy. Still, Regina had left a stuffed bunny rabbit by his daughter’s bed, the trifle desire which had cost the jumper his freedom, and his daughter nights lacking his warm embrace.

Now, three days later, Regina shakes. Locked away inside her bedchambers after refusing to attend a council meeting for the umpteenth time in the last three days, she wraps her arms about herself, disgusted at her own instability. She feels frazzled and misplaced, as if her senses linger still somewhere behind her, perhaps lost in Wonderland’s maze, or maybe locked away inside mother’s new vault. It hardly matters, not when all she must do is pull herself together and face the world outside her doors, even when it is a world intent on destroying itself. Surely some form of destiny must be at play, she muses, for a fortnight of her absence and inattention has sunk them into despair, the little news she’d allowed her Military Advisor to burden her with speaking of greater loss than she’d thought possible.

Pacing about her chambers in jerky and fast-paced motions, she ponders whether her endeavors during these war wouldn’t have been more fruitful had she gotten rid of George and Midas altogether, and had simply taken command of their armies without their input or alliance. Considering that they had managed to get themselves incarcerated after losing at least half their conjoined armies in a foolish attempt at a battle they couldn’t possibly have won, Regina finds herself pondering at the military success George has boasted for as long as Regina has known him, and at Midas’ ostensibly blind faith on the man. Regina had warned him on more than one occasion about underestimating their enemy, and she supposes she shouldn’t be that surprised that his downfall, once again, had been his ego. Whatever the case, Regina has lost her allies and half her forces, and she wishes she had it in her to care for such a desperate situation. As it is, all she has is a trembling set of hands, which she suspects will only cease to quiver once they’ve taken hold of Snow White’s heart.

Regina’s thoughts fail her at trying to find some form of concentration, so that when she hears the telltale sound of her chamber’s door opening, she finds herself exhaling with relief. She figures night has fallen already, and expecting to find her lady’s maid with food that she’ll refuse to eat, she gears up for a familiar disagreement that will at least distract her for a short while. It’s not without a hint of wonder that she finds her gaze locked with father’s own instead.

“Daddy,” she whispers, breathless.

Father says nothing, foregoing accusations or reproach even when Regina has refused to see him since she brought him back to the palace. Instead, he offers her an easy smile. His eyes escape hers quickly, though, and Regina watches a little dumbfounded as he enters her rooms, closing the door behind him with a too loud _thud_ and then walking towards the closed drapes, making quick work of opening them, despite the heaviness of the fabrics. A sliver of light enters the rooms immediately, and Regina slants her eyes with discomfort, realizing only now that she has been living in darkened rooms for days. There’s not much daylight left, however, and so it is just the orange tints of the setting sun what color the walls, tantalizingly warm. Regina dares think it’s almost pleasant.

Once he’s done, father remains by the big windows, unmoving but for the hands he offers, thrown forward and with their palms up, waiting, requesting, and never demanding. The sight of him is enough for Regina’s impulses to bring her forward, her steps fast and her hands outstretched, as if she suddenly can’t wait another second to be held. She touches her own hands to father’s, but barely holds them for a second before she’s drawing her arms up and around his shoulders, clinging to his frame with arms that haven’t yet forgotten how to hug. They hold onto one another for a long stretch of time, Regina hiding her face against father’s shoulder, the clean scent of worn down clothes so familiar that she imagines her quivering gone. 

“Daddy, you were gone,” she says after a while, her voice raspy on the whispered words. “You were gone and I–I–”

He shushes her with a whisper of his own, his voice shaping a string of soft endearments against her ear and his hand coming to rest at the back of her head, where it feels overwhelmingly gentle. It quiets Regina, and she’s secretly thankful that he’s stopped her confession with the warmth of the care that surely she doesn’t deserve. _You were gone and I didn’t notice;_ for father had been in mother’s clutches for a little over a week before she’d sent her message through Rumpelstiltskin, and Regina had simply not realized that father was missing.

Her hands turn into claws at father’s back, holding to the back of his shoulders with blunt nails and crooked fingers, digging themselves into the fabric of father’s coat with what must surely be a painful grip. The war had consumed her so that she’d nearly lost the most important person in her life. Perhaps, she thinks bitterly, the _only_ important person in her life; and how can she even look him in the eye now? How can she hope to stop herself from shaking when Snow White and her feud have nearly cost her one more beloved someone?

“ _Snow White_ ,” she snarls, her lips twisting into an ugly grimace as she finally dislodges herself from father’s embrace, bringing her hands back to hug her own waist as she takes a step back. “It’s all Snow White’s fault. Her, and her idiot prince, and the thousands that follow. Her heart should be mine by now,” she states, her eyes now leaving father as well as she takes one more step back and resumes the pacing father’s presence had stopped. “I’ll turn it into dust, daddy, I promise I will; but only after crushing her prince’s and her friends’, so she dies hopeless and lonely, just the way she would have me be.”

“ _Cielo,_ you can’t blame your mother’s ploys on Snow W–”

“Don’t you dare defend her, daddy!” Regina snaps, turning angry eyes towards her father. That he would defend her after everything they’ve been through, after everything they _are_ going through, burns through Regina like she imagines hot coals against her skin might.

Father looks at her with those eyes of his, full of warmth and yet wary, the edges of his gaze shaking with something that could be awe but Regina suspects is mostly fear. It’s the way he used to look at mother, and back in the day Regina had confused that gaze with enamored admiration, with love only surpassed by reverent respect. The thought sobers her up, and she makes an effort to stand up straight and yet look soothing – she never wants father to look upon her as someone intimidating, even when she so relishes such a stare when settled on everyone else’s eyes.

Hands settled low on her own belly, the now familiar gesture reminding her of old scars and pain brewed for ages, she allows her voice to ring true and vulnerable when she says, “I offered her a chance to stop this war. I _did_ , daddy, and she’s the one who chose to fight.”

Quietly then, scorn now lacing the exposed corners of her voice, “ _For the good of her people._ So of course she’s the hero, of course I’m the Evil Queen.”

Regina barks out a laugh, any sign of defenselessness leaving her demeanor as she reaffirms herself in the truth of her words. She had, after all, been honest when she had offered Snow and her prince a chance to keep their lives in exchange for exile. She can’t say whether such an outcome would have satisfied her need for revenge in the long run, but at the moment of uttering the proposal, she had been more than ready to give up warfare and unsatisfied desires for blood so long as she was allowed the respite of rest and peace of mind. Still rattled by the magic of the True Love’s Kiss at the time, she had just felt so utterly exhausted. Exhausted of the world and its injustice, of the internal war she had been fighting against it for longer than a decade, never mind that the world itself had only seemed to catch up with her on the past few years.

Snow White had chosen to fight, however. With the ever-present self-righteousness of her stance, she had called upon rebellion, her words reeking with sanctimonious proclamations of rights that weren’t her own to claim. She had built herself up to be the hero of the people, the queen that was wanted against that which had been forced upon this kingdom, never mind that the crown had once upon a time been thrust over Regina’s head through no desire of her own. Regina guesses the fault may lie within herself, though, for she had made an adamant effort in Snow White’s upbringing being that of a future queen, if only just for the pleasure of taking away that which Snow may desire. She should have allowed her father to keep on spoiling her instead, to keep on looking at her as a loving child of no consequence so that she grew up to be shallow and dependent, beautiful yet useless. There would have been no wars declared from Snow White had she not learnt the value of her own strength and independence from Regina herself, and so destiny must be making a joke out them yet again, that Regina has made her enemy the most challenging that she could ever hope to be.

Regina’s thoughts taste bitter, a mixture of hatred tinged with pride settling low in her belly. She snorts, tries to shake away any feeling towards Snow White that goes beyond pure hostility. The effort is futile, however, and the ghost of Snow White’s presence settles upon her, just another demon demanding its pound of flesh. Just like mother, she figures, mother who had taken what Regina loved most in an effort to – _to what?_ To remind her that she will always be there, always a menace, always in control? Or perhaps to teach her a lesson – a useful one, albeit cruel in its design? It had not failed in its intention, then, for the message had carved itself quite clearly upon Regina’s skin. She’s alone, there’s no one she can trust, and her weakness lies in that which she loves, a father that even through the adoration bestowed will choose to think Snow White the victim of Regina’s wrath, will look at her with eyes that betray fear.

Mother’s lessons are always harsh and punishing and always exercised with an unforgiving hand, but not for that are they less useful. Regina would be foolish not to listen to them, much more so now, when a kingdom swallowed up by war and strife needs her to be strong, and not the shaking mess she has allowed herself to become in the name of her father.

Nonetheless, Regina turns a tender gaze towards father, now looking at her with open eyes and a curve to his lips that doesn’t quite dare to be a smile. A weak man himself that has become the reason behind Regina’s fragility, and yet one that Regina isn’t willing to give up, never mind mother’s efforts towards such a feat.

Walking back towards father, Regina finds his hands yet again, pleased when his lips finish his smile. She’s soft in her gestures, slow like molasses as she turns her face so she can press dry lips against father’s cheek, her kiss lingering while she takes a moment to compose herself. When she moves back to search for father’s eyes with her own, she’s no longer shaking.

“Father, I wish you to remain within your bedchambers for the remainder of the war,” she says, then, making an effort so her tone remains sweet even while resolute. “You shall have your own guard and–”

“That is hardly necessary… an old man like me doesn’t–”               

“I’ll hear no protests on the matter, father. I’m to ride to war, and I won’t have you in danger while I’m gone. It’s about time your life is made a priority of this kingdom, since it is already mine.”

Father looks down, and Regina wonders if it’s shame or something else altogether. She wonders, too, if perhaps her efforts towards sweetness have completely gotten lost in the meaning of her words, and in what may appear as a harsh sentence settled upon undeserving shoulders. Regina squeezes father’s hands between her own, willing him to look back up at her, to see nothing in her eyes but his loving daughter, to forego the judgment that everyone else keeps condemning her with. Does he not understand how much Regina needs him, how much of her sanity is tangled with the beating of his heart?

“Can’t you see that I need you to be safe? That you _must_ be safe?” she questions, the harshness in her voice broken by a well of emotion settling high on her throat, making it tight and painful.

Whatever it is that father hears in her voice, it makes him look up, and offer a sincere, “ _Haz lo que tengas que hacer, princesa.” **(1)**_

It sounds resigned, a little lost, and Regina has to bite back a short-tempered snap. She breathes out, slowly, and tethers herself inside father’s eyes, in the kind lines that crinkle their edges, in the round shape of cheeks upturned by a shy smile.

“ _Padre, papi_ ,” she says, the sound accompanied by a tight smile, and her tongue fighting against the words of a language that she hasn’t used in many years.

She had tried cherishing it, but the court had beaten it out of her so it was but a hidden treasure shared with father in darkened rooms, and whatever honest desire Regina had for it Little Ace had taken away from her when she’d been claimed by an early death. Now, it tastes like ash. For father, however, she licks her lips and speaks with honesty, mellowing the gesture even more with a curled hand placed softly against his cheek, the pads of her fingers resting over papery skin with utmost reverence.

“ _No es un castigo, papi, no te estoy castigando._ ” **(2)**

Silence lingers for a moment between them, heavy. Regina wishes there was no need for such reassurance, for soft words and truths ripped out from the bottom of a still beating heart. Yet Regina knows father’s strength is not to be admired, but that it is his kindness and love that she must hold dear, and that it is mother’s memory what must guide her hands if she wishes for them to still their shaking.

Content with her decision, Regina breaks the moment with a smile and a last squeeze to father’s hands, placing one more kiss against his cheek, this time quick and almost bumbly, her lips leaving a dark imprint behind. With a careful wave of her hand and a burst of magic, she makes a box appear, the huntsman’s heart hidden beneath its pretty wooden lid.

“Don’t worry, father, you shall have company,” she intones before opening the box before her and being momentarily dumbfounded by the black swirls within an otherwise bright red heart. It still beats, then, and if it is to be useless when it comes to Regina’s amusement, then it will more than do when it comes to father’s protection. After all, she’d once seen the huntsman murder a man in cold blood to preserve the rights of a wolf, so he should be content with playing protector to a much more valued life.

In quick and precise words, enunciating carefully so that magic doesn’t play tricks or make decisions based on ambivalent requests, Regina orders the huntsman’s heart to make its owner become father’s protection and companion, and to lay his life were her father’s to be in peril. Regina spies father’s intentions of protesting her orders with ease, the turn down of features that think themselves unworthy already familiar to her, and so she stops them before they can be cause of sudden fury.

“He’s useless to me, and perhaps you may coax speech out if him yet,” Regina deadpans, thinking of the huntsman’s taste for the weak and special, for the poetry lacking in a world of war. “Trust me that the idiot will bear your company with far more grace than he bears mine. Plus,” she adds after a moment, “it will make me happy.”

A second swirl of magic sends the huntsman’s heart back to its prison, and then Regina is moving away from father and towards the thick doors of her ever-expanding closet. The orange hues of the light filtering inside the room hit her favored clothes so that the blacks and dark shades of purple, blue and red appear to be shining, as if expecting to be chosen. Regina touches a barely used gown, the rubbery feel of the fabric unfamiliar yet expensive, and the transparent tulle meant to tease the skin between her breasts and down to her navel sparkling before her eyes. It will make for a triumphant look, precisely what she needs to walk back into her council with hands that don’t shake and the determined stance that will ensure her the victory that belongs to her. She smiles, and then lets the gesture curl into a smirk.

“Now daddy, I must get dressed, and you should be getting back to your rooms; Claude will escort you.”

“Won’t you consider dinner with me beforehand, _cielo?_ ”

Regina doesn’t look at him when she answers, rather keeping her eyes fixed on her chosen gown. “You will excuse me, father, but I do have a war to win.”

 

* * *

 

Not unlike the time after Leopold’s death, the palace receives more desperate visitors during the following weeks, the loss of both George and Midas sending whatever little remained of hope and calm away, and pushing everyone into a frenzy of seeking protection wherever it is to be found. And not unlike that time as well, they come asking for far more than they can offer. Back in the day, they had dared aspire to Regina’s hand, and at least they’d had the decency of being ridiculously grandiose in their requests, so that they had afforded her a brief sort of amusement. These days, however, requests are for whatever Regina may wish to offer, and they come with words that reek of desperation and the quality of pleading that inclines Regina towards mindless cruelty.

For days, though, busy as she finds herself trying to rally her forces back and arouse a fighting spirit within the ranks of her council and army officials, she pays no attention to the arrival of nobles, preferring to spend long and sleepless hours buried in between maps and plans, and listening to her Military Advisor and Generals with clear intent, hoping to deduce some form of strategy in between words that speak of counting their losses and retiring their troops rather than of pushing back. The distraction works, and it works well, for it is no distraction at all. After all, Regina has neither the time nor the disposition to defeat herself within the chambers of her palace, and she makes it very clear that she will sacrifice every last one of her subject’s lives to this war before she claims defeat and chooses to retreat.

Days into the fray, however, Lord Eldon finds his way into the palace, no one but his frazzled wife, his wide-eyed daughter, and a knight that dies upon his arrival accompanying him. He has nothing to offer and a lot to ask for, and in his case, Regina makes an exception and takes the time to give him a proper welcome.

Regina remembers Lord Eldon as a man of few smiles and fewer sentiment, his body stout yet his face lean and long, his speech short and to the point, and never occupied with frivolous matters. Back in the days of Leopold’s court, he’d gained himself a reputation for dreariness, and yet Regina hadn’t completely abhorred him. She hadn’t visited his lands while still Leopold’s wife, but she had done so years later as the infamous Evil Queen, and Lord Eldon had received her with a quiet politeness that had made Regina decide that there was something almost affable in his serious and fluid manners. Lord Eldon himself had accompanied her in her inspections of his lands, a small patch of the kingdom situated prettily in between thick green forests and yet close enough to the sea that he’d seen fit to build himself a small port. Regina hadn’t been able to ascertain whether Lord Eldon had been aware, at the time, of the privileged little place he’d built for himself or not, his lack of inclination towards war perhaps keeping him oblivious to what an strategically vantage point he’d made his little home into. Regina hadn’t found herself inclined to inform him of such impressions, of course, content instead to share her knowing looks with no one but her Military Advisor.

Regina had thought very little of Lord Eldon and his home during the next years, and her mind had only conjured him up again at the beginning of the war, when she’d informed him of her intentions of making his lands into a crucial point within her battle strategy. Perhaps not unsurprisingly, but certainly infuriatingly enough, Lord Eldon had denied her, claiming a taste for peace and an ideological rejection of war that stopped him from lending her his lands, soldiers and reserves. He’d promised neutrality, not inclined either to fight for Snow White’s rebellion, but in Regina’s eyes, the choice of not becoming her ally wasn’t made less insulting by choosing not to become her enemy either.

Accordingly, when Lord Eldon commits the foolishness of showing his face within her own walls, asking for refuge and mercy after losing his home to the rebellion, Regina sees it fit to welcome him personally, and with a twist of her wrist that reeks of magic and that immediately cracks the man’s neck. His body falls to the floor with resounding heaviness, rolling onto its back and spreading pudgy limbs about. Regina looks upon him with disgust, even as she considers the idea that portly people make far better corpses all around, with none of that ungainly quality of the thin-boned that never fails to make her a little queasy. She smiles at the thought, enough of a distraction that the sobbing wife of the recently deceased barely catches her attention, as neither does the hard-eyed wide look of his daughter, whose eyes are firmly planted on Regina herself, rather than on her deceased father.

It is later that same evening that Regina decides what her next actions shall be. Floundering and doubts put aside, she chooses to wrap herself up in mother’s lessons, and so trust her gut and her mind and nothing else. She will ride into battle and she will do it soon, no more than a week from now, taking advantage of the lull George and Midas’ defeat has seemingly sunk her enemies into. They seem to be waiting for her next move, after all, and so she shall oblige in the most crushing way possible. Not only will she ride into battle, but she will no longer allow idle hands. How silly, that she has spent a year asking and conceding, when life has taught her that all she must do is simply _take_. And take she will. Refusal will be met by death, politics and politeness be dammed, and her kingdom will be put to work, so that victory and loss are truly shared by all.

In such a manner, Regina issues orders to have tasks given to everyone, regardless of gender, age and station. If women wish to fight then they shall have swords and armor, and if men find themselves useless in the battlefield then they shall find a place where they are not so; the elders will feed and bathe the children, or the other way around if necessary; the pointless and superficial will be taught to be diligent and will find a place wherever a hand is needed. It is war, after all, and if one can’t fight, then one must bandage, clean, cook, sew, shine, travel, or any other task Regina might need fulfilled – for if she has learnt something from her unwanted visitors, then that is that even within the dullest of spirits lies at least a single talent.

Regina might not have been inclined to make such an affirmation not long ago, but the arrival of old Countess Ninny may have just been her saving grace. Not that the old goat is in any way agreeable, but unlike others among the noble ranks, she had declared herself on Regina’s side as soon as the war had erupted, and had stubbornly defended her own lands with ability and without regret, so that when she’d been defeated and forced to run to Regina, she had done so with anger and requests for further battles. Unlike many others, too, she’d come to Regina with everything she’d had left; a smattering of soldiers, food, fabrics, weapons, and two granddaughters for Regina to do with as she saw fit. Surprisingly enough, it had been the latter who had convinced her to commission everyone for responsibility, for if the countess’ bland relatives could be of such use, then surely everyone else could join in the effort.

The countess’ granddaughters, two girls only a year apart, fifteen and sixteen respectively, had shown up before Regina with no expression written in their lifeless faces and very little to offer in the way of witty conversation. Both of them entirely too tall, broad-shouldered and ungainly, they were saddled with what Baroness Irene had once told Regina was the worst of curses for a woman – that of being ordinary. The baroness had always said that if one couldn’t be beautiful then one must dare be truly ugly, for anything surely surpassed being uninspiring. That is, however, what old Countess Ninny’s granddaughters are, a fact that isn’t helped by the rest of their story. They are both daughters to the countess’ younger son, a rogue that had run away from his family and given up privilege, and who had, upon his death, sent a pregnant wife and a one year old daughter back into his mother’s care. Obliged by her family ties, the countess had taken the no name wife under her roof, and had shed no tears when she’d been taken by death during childbirth. The first granddaughter had gone by the name of Lena, and bothered by the idea of learning a second appellative for the newborn, the countess had christened her with the same one. Thus, the girls had come to be known as One and Two, and so it was that they had presented themselves to Regina, who had thought the dim titles fitting to both listless girls.

It was a rather pleasant surprise then, when on the evening of Lord Eldon’s untimely death, she’d found the girls busy sewing a cut his fall had caused on his forehead, both of them unperturbed by the sight of death as they prepared the body for the usual funerary rituals. They’d both confessed a taste for thread and needle when questioned, and had claimed to be unbothered whether it was fabric or flesh that was their board. Snorting in surprised amusement, Regina had found an oddly pleasant sensation in being inspired into action by the otherwise tedious girls.

“Your Majesty, as much as I admire the brilliance behind your latest stratagem, do you truly think it wise?”

It is her Military Advisor that questions her late one afternoon, both of them leaning against the railing of the biggest balcony within the palace as their eyes survey her soldiers down below by the front entrance, all of them busy loading up carriages before the sun disappears and gives way to one of the starry nights they’ve been having as of late. They will be leaving the palace tomorrow, Regina wanting to take advantage of the lull of activity their enemies have fallen into after the defeat of both George and Midas. Busy as they probably are deciding their prisoner’s fate, and perhaps thinking that Regina will wait longer to form a new strategy attack, they will find that their inaction will cost them dearly. Honestly, she would have thought that Snow White would know her better than to expect any sort of dawdling from her.

It’s a fine evening, nonetheless, and thoughts of Snow escape her, even as she’s getting ready to ride to war yet again. She’s feeling the nervous calm of anticipation, the fretfulness mother had caused her not long ago having settled into determination, and her magic humming along somewhere at the back of her neck, more harmonious than it has felt for months, ever since the True Love’s Kiss had perturbed it so. The Military Advisor must know she’s feeling rather serene, for he wouldn’t have thought to approach her with questions otherwise.

“ _The brilliance behind my latest stratagem?_ And here I thought you and I were past obnoxious compliments, _”_ Regina mocks the Advisor’s words, her lips lifting up into an amused smile. “Tell me duke, do you think me unwise?”

The duke laughs, if not unkindly, and when Regina finally looks at him, the wrinkles around his eyes betray true enjoyment.

“Too smart if anything, Your Majesty,” he answers, quickly denying any intention towards false flattery by saying, “Perhaps too smart for your kingdom. There are whispers amongst your supporters, Your Majesty; many think themselves too highly stationed for menial work, and fathers aren’t too pleased with having their daughters wielding swords or–”

“And yet daughters are happy to do so, as much as sons are relieved by being allowed to saw and heal,” Regina interrupts, swift to stop the protests that she had assumed would arise. “Perhaps these sons and daughters will learn to take nothing for granted.”

The duke harrumphs, straightening his posture in a gesture familiar to Regina. It’s the one he takes on when he wishes to contradict her and doesn’t quite know how, and it never fails to amuse her. Regina widens the smile the duke had managed to settle earlier on her lips, and straightens up herself, the gesture as military looking in her own frame as it is in the duke’s.

Then, mirth dancing in her eyes and in the spaces between her words, she says, “Duchess Adela was rather favorable to my ideas, and you know what a hard time we have agreeing on just about anything.”

“Yes, well, our good friend the duchess has been wanting to put people to work since she came into this world, I’m sure.”

“Was the duchess ever born, duke? Was she ever a child? It seems silly to think that she was ever something other than what she is.”

The duke covers a small peal of laughter with a polite cough, and then, with the air of a disgruntled father that has seen far too many quarrels amongst his children, says, “Please do refrain from saying such things before her; she’ll be offended for days, Your Majesty.”

Regina smiles with utmost gentleness, content that she has distracted the Advisor if only for a moment. She looks back down below them, waving a hand in childish glee when Rivers spots her watching and calls an enthusiastic _Your Majesty!,_ that the rest of the soldiers mimic in a discordant chorus, all of them stopping, if just for a second, to look up at her.

“Children, the lot of them,” she scolds quietly, even when the smile that has conquered her this evening refuses to free her lips.

“Children with weapons and bloodlust, Your Majesty,” the Advisor is quick to reply, his semblance taking on the same grim expression he’d worn when he’d first approached her.

“My favorite kind, then,” she quips.

He means to question her further, and they both know it, but Regina doesn’t have it in her to listen to advice that might change her mind, or delay their departure. Her own blood is screaming for battle, encouraged not just by the recent failure, but by the comfort of wearing mother’s words around her, stronger than any shield ever built by the hands of men. She knows the Advisor is worried by the reaction of her people, but if mother had reminded her of something by taking father from her, then that is that asking nicely has never quite been as effective a method as simply taking that which is owed. And by the gods Regina is owed loyalty and faith, and she will take it by force should it be denied. She has spent a year crawling on her knees asking for favors, and yet she remains belittled and maligned, the Evil Queen now more than ever for daring to request action and diligence. _No more,_ she tells herself.

“Your Majesty, I fear–”

Regina is no longer in a mood to listen to advice, however, and having expected further examination from the duke, she’s quick to interrupt with, “Have you ever starved, duke?”

“Your Majesty?”

Regina straightens yet again, turns her back towards the outside so that she’s facing the duke, eyes unwavering when they meet his light grey ones. His mouth twitches with misunderstanding at the non-sequitur, so Regina questions again, “Have you ever gone without food? For days, I mean?”

“I have fought many wars in the past, and not all of them were kind to a soldier’s stomach; of course I have, Your Majesty.”

Regina nods pensively, and lowers her voice when she speaks. “You know what it feels like, then; the weakness and the dizziness, the way time loses meaning when all you understand is that your mouth is dry and your breaths shallow, how your heart beats so fast that it seems to be wanting to free itself from your chest.”

She stops, takes a moment to breathe deeply and let her hand rest against her ribcage and travel down in a soothing caress until it’s settled on her stomach, and then fills the momentary silence before the Advisor can utter any word in answer.

“It’s a true test, is it not, duke?”

“One that a queen should never endure,” is his answer, which prompts Regina to laugh, the sound short-lived and joyless, like sandpaper against her throat.

“On the contrary. A queen must endure, and so must her people. I wouldn’t want a kingdom that lets itself lay down and look forward to death at the first sign of adversity, and neither should you.” Her words are harsh and short, and yet she finishes her statement with a sigh, her eyes drawing away from the duke’s and turning towards her own hands, now both of them resting over her belly. “I fear I have spoiled my kingdom.”

“And I suppose there is nothing that I may say that will temper your resolve.”

“You are quite right,” she states, turning back around to stare down and then towards the horizon, the lands of the Royal State expanding before her under a sunset that has painted the sky in cloudy reds. “My kingdom has starved, dear duke, and now it is time that it learns to endure.”

 

* * *

 

War has its own smell, and if nothing else, then that is what Regina will forever remember of her days of battle. Muddied clothes and unbathed bodies that spend too long a time out in the sun is the kind of natural odor that can’t be forgotten once it has pervaded the air for long days, and yet it is preferable to the stench of festering wounds and infected blood that comes along with battles, and to the indefinably arid, stale and chalky fragrance of something ancient and long dead. If there is comfort to be found in the perfumes of combat, Regina finds it amongst her horses, in that spot behind their ears that is overwhelmingly soft and feels almost like fur. All horses smell good, and they bring with them the sweet memory of baled hay and freshly cut grass, of the changeless whiff of leather that used to cling to Daniel’s skin.

However so, Regina sets her base camp outside her newly recovered fortress, the price obtained after two fortnights of careful planning, tiresome riding, and the first battle to reclaim that which had been lost. Her army had managed to push back Snow’s unsavory band of rebels, the victory obtained partly through more experienced military prowess and partly through the element of surprise, for Regina had been right in assuming they weren’t expecting her to push back as soon as she had. Alas, she’d won what she knew was the first battle of many, and she’d sent the head of the man who had captained the defense of Snow’s lines wrapped in linen and within a pretty box back to the Royal Castle, where she knew Snow, Charming and her closest peers to be housed. It had been as clear a message as she could have managed, after all, for what her true meaning was – that the war is far from over, and that Snow is a fool if she'd thought Regina would stand back and surrender before they could finish this the same way they had started it; face to face, and no other way.

Her base camp sees life in little to no time after that first victory, her men already experienced in the art of warfare and their hands quick to work out the settlement that will guard them from the elements. Regina has them settle it at the foot of the fortress’ surrounding forest, where the wind carries the scent of trees and the dampness of early autumn. It fails to mask the smell of war, and yet it brings a certain comfort to tired limbs and weary minds.

And so it is that battle lives again, and that Regina regains her spirit amidst fire and blood.

Surprisingly enough, it is not just her spirit that sees a change, for if giving her people tasks that they hadn’t conceived could possibly belong to them seemed like the plan of a madwoman at the time, as the arid days of battle succeed each other, her idea proves to be everything but insane. And how could it not, when idle hands suddenly find themselves filled up with purpose? Be it cleaning swords or wielding them, cooking poultices or sewing clothes, tending to the wounded or receiving wounds, everyone is busy, and so it is that everyone becomes too preoccupied with the business of war to care far too much for the shallow ideals of the past. For as time moves forward with as quick a pace as Regina’s army pushes south towards the edge of the kingdom, Snow’s followers crumbling beneath her newly steadied feet, her own camp becomes oblivious to race or class, to gender or upbringing.

As it is, with enough dust and mud tainting everyone’s skin, with calluses marring otherwise smooth skin, war does what nothing has ever done before, in that they all become equal, a unit fighting with one single purpose. A purpose that perhaps they forget, for Snow White’s name crosses no mouths and the sovereign seat seems to matter to no one but Regina herself, but a purpose nonetheless – that of moving forward, that of being that which one desires, rather than that which one was born to be.

Thus, war brings with it a brave new world, one where boys of noble birth break their bread with soldiers bred on poverty, where women whose future spells nothing but marriage to the highest bidder lay next to whoever it is they wish to do so, where noble hands sew up wounds open on common flesh, where old crows called witches by the villagers teach young and smooth hands to brew potions and understand herbs, where there is dust under every nail and holes on every piece of clothing, and yet peace and purpose humming inside every chest. If nothing else, there will be children born of this war, bastards bred out of wedlock and brought to the world by those who grew up as unequal but have found their common ground in the midst of sand and blood – and all of them will be Regina’s children, brought to the world to claim her legacy.

Regina, however, remains distant. She walks among her soldiers, of course, rides with them to battle and stands by the wounded, even allowing herself to secretly mourn those that end up dead and buried, sacrifices to the goddess of war that she’s painted herself as. She eats what they eat just as well, and when food is scarce she takes none herself, and yet she dines alone, absconded inside her own tent, which only ever sees the visits of her closest advisors and servants.

Nonetheless, battle washes through her with as much power as it does everyone else, and by the second month on the road, when the dark colors of autumn have conquered their days, her skin has darkened, settling itself in the golden tan that mother had spent years trying to avoid. Regina finds herself calloused, too, her hands and wrists taking the toll of the gesture-based magic that she favors in battle, the fire that she conjures without much of a thought these days more often than not burning her hardened skin. There are bruises, too, from arrows that fly too close, from the swords of those foolish enough to try to take her on, from horses that trip her up and throw her down to the ground. It’s not just her skin which suffers, for she knows that her hair insists on curling unattractively by her ears and her forehead, plastering itself there with sweat and dust, even when she tries her best to keep it tidy in the tight braid that falls down her back. There isn’t much she can do, and wasting magic on the pursuit of keeping it presentable seems to her like a fool’s errand, considering their plight.

For all that, she can’t deny that her magic is more settled than it has been in perhaps years, precise and careful in how it unfolds in between her hands, crawling down her arms and past her fingers like a well-loved friend of old. The low hum of it accompanies her in every moment and in every movement, instinctive as a sixth sense would be. She wonders whether her magic has been this kind of quietly intuitive since it was rattled so by Snow and the prince’s True Love Kiss, or if perhaps it hadn’t been disturbed even longer ago before, when Rumpelstiltskin had first brought the Dark Curse before her. Regina can’t quite remember, and she doesn’t much care – not when she feels more in tune with her own body than she has since that ball she threw after Snow bit the poisoned apple and fell asleep for an eternity that proved too short.

Partly to thank for her good mood, perhaps, is her choice to forego gowns and too-tight corsets altogether, favoring riding clothes and only the softest of bodices to wear under laced-up shirts and thick jackets. Certainly her clothes are equally rich in quality and feel as the jewel-up gowns and overly-adorned coats of days spent within the palace, but they provide her with a sense of freedom that she’d thought long lost. She would altogether avoid armor as well, but the Military Advisor and her Generals never fail to insist on coat of mail covering her torso, or on the heavy head-wear that she’s favored during battles in the past.

She has allowed no mirrors to be carried with them, the only one she possesses herself the overly ornate handheld one her genie had given her as a present all those years ago, when he’d first walked into the palace by Leopold’s side and had been enough of a fool to believe Regina’s tales of forbidden love. She has it with her for the sole purpose of calling for him when needed, and had only chosen it for the irony of it all, and the way it makes her now trapped servant huff and puff with wry detachment. It amuses Regina so, after all. Thus, she hasn’t allowed much worry over what might not be her best look. It matters not, she finds, for she sees herself reflected in the eyes that follow her steps, in gazes shaped in mild awe and fear, in recognition and a shade of reverence. It’s not the look a woman like Snow White would crave from her followers, inasmuch as it only builds up the distance that Regina won’t allow herself to close. But then she’s the Evil Queen; dressed in simple clothing, matted with mud and darkened by the seasonal winds, indeed, powerful and revered even without the masks and veils of dresses and perfumes.

Amongst the eyes that gaze upon her, Regina finds that there’s a pair that she can’t quite dismiss. It comes attached to a face of thick lips yet sharp cheekbones, to thin, wispy hair colored in dark grey, and to an old, thick and uncomely scar cutting its way from under the soft lobe of an ear all the way down to the cleft of a slightly pointed chin. Some would say General Alston is indeed quite the handsome man, and Regina may find herself inclined to agree if not for the lecherously raw way in which his round and dark blue eyes stare Regina down, at times as if she’s a fine piece of prey. She has no time to fend off the blatant lust of the general, particularly when it comes coupled with the condescension of a forty six year old man bred in battle, where he thinks women have no place. Truth be told, Regina would do away with him entirely, if only he hadn’t arrived just in time to back up her first battalion during an assault that had nearly cost them a recently recuperated villa.

General Alston, born a farmer and having flourished through life by sheer stubbornness, is King George’s right hand man, and First General of his army. A brute of sorts, quick-tempered and with a penchant for ignoring Military Advisors altogether, he is, despite it all, quite an asset when it comes to battle. Regina has always thought it sheer dumb luck, but George had always insisted that a man like that is to be kept close, lest he feels inclined to attach himself to one’s enemy instead. George may have been foolish in one too many things, but in this, Regina finds that she can’t contradict his ideas.

The general, for all the distaste that he evokes in Regina, had come to her aide with a legion that nears a thousand men, all part of George’s now disassembled army, all men of war, equipped, trained and ready to die an honorable death in the name of their general, now that their king resides with the rebels, awaiting trial and possible execution. General Alston coming to her is a case of _enemy of my enemy_ , and Regina would have been happy to deny him if only he, along with his men, weren’t desperately needed in ranks that have seen themselves diminished with the passing of the weeks. How she wishes she could pluck Alston’s eyes out, however, eyes that paint her a little girl playing with the toys of trained men, while daring to tear her clothes away with lowered lids and darkened pupils.

He talks about her with his men, she knows. He speaks in coarse words of how pretty she’ll look once she bends over for him, a picture of submissive thankfulness, once this war is over. He laughs with the kind of abrasively loud guffaw only men like him allow themselves, and then jokes with his own men about the idea of letting King George, thankful himself after being rescued, marry a woman sampled and soiled by his own hands.

“You mustn’t mind him, Your Majesty,” her Military Advisor insists, his warm yet stern voice perhaps the only thing stopping her from burning General Alston alive in front of the very men that he so likes to show off to.

Regina does mind him however, as much as she minds the chaos that accompanies his arrival. For all that his help is needed, in so far as the business of war implies, the general’s belligerent ways and the intrusive nature of most of his men cause a nearly imperceptible yet immediate shift in the disposition of her camp. The easiness of purpose that she’d found amongst her followers, nobles and commoners alike, evaporates before the contentiousness of the new arrivals, and conflict arises from within her ranks. Her closest men are most displeased at seeing themselves sharing their space with an army that matches them in prowess and status, and Regina soon finds herself getting used to the sight of men rolling around the mud with their fists in between them.

Whatever the case may be, she can’t deny that General Alston’s men help her cause when they find themselves pushing further south and closer to her kingdom’s borders every day, and so all she can do is groan her way through the discomfort that they bring both to her camp and herself. She tells herself that there should be no comfort to be had while in the midst of war, and that she had only fooled herself into thinking that feeling at peace within her own body would translate into the world feeling at peace with itself. Her new world order will have to wait, it seems, and if such doldrums are to be tolerated, then she chooses to do so with her head held high and a smirk upon her lips. A smirk, henceforth, that she puts between her own lips by enjoying the petty pleasure of humiliating General Alston at every turn, her tongue, sharpened by years of dealing with refined members of the court, far more subtle and trained for the matter than Alston’s loud showcasing of crudeness could ever hope to be. And if her tongue isn’t enough to dissuade the man from his patronizing ways, then Regina taking his second in command as her lover most certainly does the trick.

However, a plan designed to teach Alston a lesson and please her own senses, proves to be the final change that makes her camp become a scene as unpleasant as the court had once been. For all that her people live in a world of blood and find their sleep among the cries of the wounded and those the dead leave behind, for all that they make allowance to find comfort in between arms that are inappropriate by class and status, Regina discovers that once more, she must be held in a different condition, that she must play with a disparate set of rules. No longer posing as the distant and unapproachable Evil Queen, the sight of an unsuitable man at her side is the spark her war camp needs to become a place for judgment to be passed. And while the court had been a world of mild implications and pale delicacies, this new world of hers has no time for such subtleties, and is quick to chastise.

Regina learns that is she must choose a lover, then surely Alston would have been the right decision, since such a preference would have come across as the queen securing the help of an army that isn’t hers by right. However, her pick of a lower ranking officer seems to her people as a breach of discretion. Regina is no fool, though, and knows that she wouldn’t have been so hardly judged had her lover’s skin not been a shade darker than propriety dictates. That his skin matches hers matters not, it seems, if not for the fact that it reminds everyone around her of her rather suspicious origins, and of a family tree that perhaps should have had no ground to covet the sovereign seat. The word _exotic_ finds its way to her people’s lips one more time, a mockery of the judgment passed on a young girl that had wanted nothing but freedom, and had had no wish for a crown above her head.

_It does seem rather foolishly inappropriate of you to tempt your followers in such a manner, but then I gave up on lecturing you on such matters long ago. I would ask you for discretion, but I know better, do I not? Do be careful, for all our sakes._

Duchess Adela’s short letter gets a peal of laughter out of Regina, so much that she nearly forgets to complete her reading of the missive, detailing the dealings among the people that have been left behind at the Dark Palace. Her Military Advisor, uncomfortably reading from above her shoulders, makes no effort in hiding how displeased he is by the matter at hand, and by Regina’s wry amusement. It seems he thinks her thoughtless and irresponsible, and if there’s truth in such an idea, then Regina is all the more adamant to remain casual before the scrutiny. It isn’t the first time her kingdom resolves to condemn her, and it won’t be the last. She plans to teach them a lesson, if only by repeating her offenses.

“Don’t be upset, duke; we’re at war, and people shouldn’t spend their time worrying about whoever it is that is filling my bed,” she says, folding the duchess’ missive carelessly, and being deliberately dismissive in her tone. “One would think people don’t die every day around here with what an uproar my exploits are making.”

“Your Majesty, you ask far too much of your people,” the duke chastises, hands nervously fidgeting for a moment before they settle, fingers twined together before him. “Perhaps discretion _would_ be wise. I wouldn’t dare ask you cease your _relations_ with the captain, but simply hiding them from the public eye would do.”

Regina chuckles at the thought, not because the Advisor is wrong, but simply because hiding is a sacrifice she gave up on the moment Leopold died and she was dubbed the Evil Queen. What is the point of carrying such a title, after all, if freedom doesn’t walk hand in hand with it?

“My dear duke, if you manage to give me one good argument against my openly taking whichever lover I choose, then perhaps I might consider it,” Regina intones, playful. She holds onto her lower lip for just a moment with her teeth, and then releases the bite to be just a tad more serious as she says, “I do value your opinion, truly, and you know I mean to honestly consider whatever it is you have to say.”

The duke splutters for a moment, caught off guard at Regina’s request, and stumbles over his words in a very unfamiliar way as he argues, “Why, Your Majesty, decorum! Decorum and tradition–”

“Ah, yes,” Regina quickly interrupts, batting her eyelashes prettily the duke’s way, entirely too amused by this favored advisor of hers, who can so easily weave eloquent speeches on politics and strategy but wavers before the idea of explaining good manners to a younger female. “I learnt all my lessons as a young girl, so surely you must have something else to present.”

“You mock me, Your Majesty.”

Regina laughs, delighted, and denies such an idea. “Never you, my dear duke. _Decorum and tradition,_ however, oh well. Now how _did_ that lesson go? A lady must provoke male praise and appreciation, while never forget to cheerfully reject it. And yet, I don’t quite remember having the choice to reject that which was unwanted.”

“Your Ma–”

“Enough; this matter won’t be discussed again,” Regina cuts the protest short, suddenly all too aware of uttering a confession that she would have wished to keep to herself. “Let’s discuss how we will manage to cross the last stretch of mountains along the border, shall we?”

“That we shall, Your Majesty.”

 

* * *

 

The last stretch of mountains along the border, as it is, proves itself to be her army’s most challenging undertaking thus far. Regina had known that much, for the range of mountains had always been one of the great natural defenses of the kingdom, its main crest separating George’s crown lands from her own beautifully, extending its rocky paths from the Bay of Discord all the way into the ocean. The Bay had been thus named after a conflict which had caused what had once been a single kingdom to break apart in two, under two differently minded kings who’d shared nothing but their stubbornness and their father’s blood,. Regina had always found the mountains a beautiful coronation to the lands of her kingdom, and yet the lack of low passes put her in a difficult position, making the roads that run in the lowlands at both the western and eastern end, near sea level, a far too wide path for her army to take, risky in that the enemy will see them coming days before they can reach the other side.

The Military Advisor recommends waiting, considering that they’re still settling battles along the south, and that remaining at their current outpost will close most of the commercial routes to George's kingdom, and will eventually force Snow's hand, if she wishes to keep feeding her people. Just as well, the Military Advisor indicates that taking back George’s kingdom should come as a lower priority than maintaining Regina’s own, and rebuilding the structures and lands that have been lost and burnt on the army’s pathway. Regina agrees, in theory, and has endeavored to leave villagers behind with resources enough to settle back into their old professions and rebuild that which the war had destroyed. Her foresight has proven efficient, too, if the words she receives from the palace and the north are to be believed, Duchess Adela speaking of the earth being cleaned and plowed again, readying itself for a season of healthy crops and the fruit that has been sorely missed for more than a year now. _I daresay we may taste tomatoes soon, Your Majesty,_ Duchess Adela writes, suggesting quite clearly that, these days, a tasty meal takes precedence over any other sort of luxury.

However, a military camp with nothing to do but wait feels to Regina like a bad idea altogether, bound to explode sooner rather than later. No amount of music, escorts or wine can make up for the idleness, and the novelty of duties unknown before the war seems to be wearing thin, the aggression within the camp only being fueled further by the still discomforting presence of General Alston and his men. Fist fights become the usual nightly entertainment, and the rumor mill runs rampant with all sort of discouraging ideas. All in all, her camp becomes a dirtier and coarser version of what her court had once been, and so whatever comfort war had afforded, it begins to abandon her, leaving behind agitated nerves and the worst sort of anticipation. Her magic, too, so very settled when consumed naturally by the gestures of battle, now seems to crackle under her skin, unreleased and unpredictable, pushing her to snap at whatever or whoever happens to be closer.

Nonetheless, Regina does her best to keep busy. Snow White most certainly helps, the small raids that keep breaking along the south a small worry that forces Regina’s mind to be settled upon something useful, and the constant string of messengers sent her way and insisting on making a deal for George’s freedom amusing enough if only because of their naïveté. Snow seems to be under the impression that Regina actually cares for George’s well-being outside of whichever profit their partnership has brought her in the past, and her letters read like an honest effort to appeal to non-existent tenderness for the man. However, they do suggest an increasing level of frustration, and Regina can only count that Snow is as tired of their impasse as Regina is herself. For now, all she has is the joy of mockingly caustic replies, which Snow should be thankful she sends back with messengers that have kept their lives, as well as all of their limbs.

Regina’s treatment of her enemy’s messengers, more merciful than she would have been inclined to in other circumstances, is mostly for Alston’s favor, since the man would be more than happy to keep tongues and fingers as macabre trophies. There is such a thing as politeness among rivals of war, however, and Regina won’t give into base impulses if only to show the general what a bumbling brute he truly is. She does, however, roll her eyes through an explanation of how George surely wouldn’t want her surrendering their position in exchange for his life, and how he’s a man brave enough to take whatever sort of torture the enemy might put him through, in an effort to calm Alston’s protests on Regina’s lack of action regarding his king. That she harbors intentions of getting rid of George herself once this war is over she doesn’t disclose, of course, particularly because Alston is most certainly the first on her mental list of necessary executions, if only out of sheer annoyance.

These are all considerations that Regina keeps her mind occupied with, thoughts of what she will do and how once this war is finally over, once she has crowned herself winner of it all, and once she joins her kingdom with George’s under a single sovereign seat – her own, with no king to hold her hand or speak for her. Most of all, she thinks of how wonderful the weight of Snow White’s heart will feel in the hollow of her hand.

Thoughts entertain her well enough, as do the people that she has chosen to surround herself with at this time, her little circle of trust that she forces herself to keep around and close at all times, lest she drives herself mad with her solitude. Dear Duke Nicholas if of course a given choice, as are the close-knit members of her Black Guard, the four men that remain from the first six that she brought under her employment and protection all those years ago, ever-faithful even before there was an epithet preceding her title. One and Two have become surprising favorites as well, both of them diligent and quiet unlike any other girls their age, their hands always busy and their voices never uttering a protest. They’ve taken to sitting on the floor by Regina, sewing fabrics, cleaning weapons, transcribing letters from those with lesser education, and occasionally reading to her, if Regina demands it so. She knows they used to sit just like that at the feet of their grandmother, the old countess, and the thought most certainly tends to sober Regina about the truths of her age. After all, she more than doubles the ages of the girls. At Two’s age she’d met Daniel, and by the time she’d reached One’s years she’d been skirting the edges of a short-lived romance, already in love and harboring foolish fantasies of a world where she’d had a choice. She wonders if the girl she’d been then would have had the strength to survive a war at the feet of a cruel queen of mercurial tastes, while hysterically contemplating that no heartless ruler would have been less merciful than mother.

Close to her too, is the old woman who had once assured Regina that her cycle coming back was a sign of her body healing, and who had brewed a tonic for her pain with hands so firm that they disagreed with the woman’s true age. She’d followed Regina’s request to accompany her on her campaign as the order it had truly been, and had left her old hut to teach her trade to whoever wished to listen. She has no magic and yet there’s something of a witch to her, an old wisdom that Regina craves and chooses to learn from, and a no-nonsense impudence brewed from age that has bought her a place amongst Regina’s favorites.

Despite the duke’s justified reservations, Regina has also taken Lord Eldon’s daughter under her wing. The girl, almost eighteen and nothing but a pair of beautifully wide green eyes carved in too sharp features, had smuggled her way into Regina’s camp, and later on, into Regina’s tent, murderous intent in her mind. She’d seen her father die at Regina’s hands, and had gotten into her useless head that she could kill the queen if only she was quiet enough. Regina might have killed her for her troubles, but the girl had inspired an odd sense of compassion in her instead, something about her too thin frame and trembling hands striking a tender note in her heart. Tenderness is so rare for Regina these days that she’d offered the girl to stay on as a lady maid’s of sorts during their time at war, since her actual lady’s maid had been left behind at the palace to look after father. Hildred, for that is the girl’s name, had spouted that there would come a day when Regina would die by her hand, which had only managed to amuse Regina to no end.

Regina likes her spirit, and she likes that the girl has decided to bide her time and take advantage of whatever knowledge is at her grasp. As it turns out, her beloved father had made a particular effort in ensuring Hildred remained as dumb as humanly possible, as well as thoroughly isolated, so it’s hardly any wonder that the girl has thrown herself headfirst into books and men with feverish fervor, and that she seems to be enjoying her time as Regina’s protégé for now. Regina daresay once strife is over and she gets a little more meat in her bones, she will be something close to beautiful, too, and, perhaps, with Regina’s guidance, somewhat of a choice to continue her legacy, if not what she would call a first choice. But then, her first choice had unfortunately landed in ungrateful little Gretel, all spunk and instinct, and nothing in her for Regina to mold to her image. Hildred seems certainly safer in that regard, if vivacious enough, gutsy to the point of walking herself into a suicide mission to get rid of Regina, and with enough sparkle in her that perhaps Regina can get her to shine the right way. As for that horrible name of hers, well, once the war is over they can certainly choose something more suitable for a queen’s companion.

Her little, precious family of war, as Regina has come to think of her group of chosen ones, is rounded, of course, by her lover, Captain Nestor, second in command to General Alston, and a pleasant surprise in the midst of warfare. Regina had been so sure, after all, that after months of the huntsman’s inertness and her last unfortunate encounter with Maleficent there would be no intimacy to be found anywhere, perhaps ever again. Truth be told, she hadn’t been in the mood to find it either, much preferring the wildness that the first months of battles had brought to her spirit.

Quite inexplicably, Regina had found herself attracted to Captain Nestor after one single look. Not even a long look at that, for at the time, General Alston and his peacocking had demanded all of her attention, seeing as he’d come to her at just the right time to procure her a strategic win. Nonetheless, Nestor had been hard to miss among his fellow soldiers, all golden brown skin and copper-colored eyes of alluring depth, demeanor impossibly calm and full lips set into a tired smile. Regina had been singularly captivated, and if only because of that, she’d felt compelled to take a longer look, and even to find out who exactly was the person hiding behind such handsome features.

It is curious, that she should have been so instantly attracted to a man. After all, Regina’s relationships with men have been always filled with an unavoidable touch of reservation on her part, and with a basic inability to let herself go, lest she appear weak by giving herself to pleasure. Women had been a completely different matter since the beginning, Regina always falling into abandon with ease when her hands got lost in feminine curves. When it came to men, however, Regina had never been capable of detaching herself of memories past. She had loved only one man; a boy, really, and even now, she knows she’s chosen her men to be as physically different from Daniel as possible, the remembrance of her girlhood and her loss far too painful for her to do otherwise. Above all, her taste for men would forever be ruled by what had followed, the touch of a man that had taken years of abstinence and hours upon hours of Maleficent’s hands to erase. And even then, she knows that there’s a piece of her that will forever remain dead under the memoir of Leopold. Not for nothing has she never allowed a man to rest his weight above her. Just as well, she’s always been instinctually unaware of the appeal of men, with the only exception being that stranger under a hood that had once enchanted her briefly at the Summer Festival all those years ago. However, that brief encounter might as well have been a fantasy, which Captain Nestor most certainly is not.

On the contrary, Nestor is about as solid a man as she could have chosen for herself, his body strong and the shape of his shoulders rocklike under her hands, the tone of his voice low if firm, always accompanying a nearly frustrating calmness of being.

“I despair of you, dear,” Regina finds herself saying often in his presence, always an amused tilt to the sigh that she follows it with. “A soldier that has no taste for fury, what a disgrace.”

He laughs, always laughs, the sound rich and clear, one that only a man without cares in the world may possess. “My mighty general has fury for us both, _mi reina. Alguien tiene que tener la cabeza fría._ ” **(3)**

Regina inevitably curls her lips, hating and adoring both how his tongue shapes the familiar words of a language that she has chosen to forsake. Nestor insists on it, every day and every night that they share, for he’s stubborn and seemingly unafraid of her temper, and loves to tease her into pleasure with a tongue that curls between her legs as it pronounces the words _mi reina_ reverently. It’s more possession that she's allowed a man to have of her body in too long a time, having forbidden even the huntsman to descend his mouth upon her from the first and only time he’d tried. She wonders, often, whether Nestor speaking the tongue of Regina’s ancestors as a balm to her senses isn’t part of the spell that he has seemingly cast upon her.

Regina won’t deny that it had been a pleasant surprise when he’d first spoken to her in a tongue that she had heard no one but her father and her cousin speak before, even if she’d denied him the privilege of a reply herself, resolutely sticking to the common language instead.

“Come, Captain,” she’d said instead, guiding him to her tent for the first time. “Entertain me with your story, and I may allow you to keep that impudent tongue of yours.”

That night, he'd talked for long hours, gracefully holding the cup of wine Regina had offered while barely tasting it, and looking straight at her but for the moments when his story took on the mournful tones of remembrance, when he would turn his face towards the set of candles that lighted up the tent. Regina had listened with almost no attention at all, letting the deep timbre of his voice settle her down instead, giving into the quiet pleasure of listening to the language mother had once forbidden with open calmness. She'd heard enough of Nestor's story to be satisfied, however, or at least enough to satiate a short-lasting curiosity for the man, beyond what his looks and sound could offer her. A man of few flourishes with his words, he'd related quite the simple story. Born the second son of a minor lord from George's kingdom, he'd had very little choice in ending up with a military career, since the money and titles of the family would go to his older brother, whom Nestor hadn't wished to depend upon. His career had been enough to see him become Alston's second in command, while rather inglorious all the same; functional enough, Regina had guessed, at least to get him a good salary, the consideration of the king, and an adequate marriage with the third-born daughter of a lord of equal status to his father's.

Truth be told, Regina would have found the story sleep-inducing if not for the shapes curling Nestor's tongue. It had been his mother, he'd said, who'd given him the color of his skin and taught him the language of her family, and that of Regina's ancestors. A mother who had left her own land far behind when she had married, but who had refused to lose the thread that joined her to her past. Regina could relate, for father might have cowered before mother in every other little thing, but not in the matter of his mother tongue. Although, for all the good it's done Regina, sometimes she thinks, bitterly, that he might as well have saved himself the trouble.

Regina had almost breached the subject with Nestor, something about his eyes and the mood that had settled between them that night inviting confession. Tempted to such foolishness, she'd draped herself over him instead, thighs and knees settling around his when she'd straddled his lap, and had promptly quieted his words with warm lips parted upon his. He'd touched her slowly, with big hands and expert fingers that never claimed but never asked for permission either, attending to her every demand almost before she could utter them. She had divested him completely, and had allowed him equal privilege, and intimacy had settled between in ways Regina barely remembered anymore. Truth be told, she'd hardly remembered the last time she'd taken the time to get herself naked for a lover, and so she had spent the night in between sighs and soft murmurs, and had come with her nails digging snuggly into the hard muscles of Nestor's shoulders, and her hips rolling carelessly above his.

After that night, Regina would have been happy to terminate her intimate relationship with the captain, the sweet memory of it better than the dissatisfaction she knew would soon follow were she to keep him around too long. People inevitably bore her, after all, and it’s easier to dismiss them before they do so. However, the camp’s sudden and outspoken opposition towards such an affair had made her keep Nestor around, if only to be contrary.

“It’s their savage blood, calling to each other,” she’d heard one man say, General Alston and his uproarious laughter the recipient of the statement.

She’d sneered at the sheer nerve of him, and yet had left his heart uncrushed. There seems to be little to no use in destroying every acid tongue, not if she wants to have an army to rally against her enemy. For the time being, lesser minds would have to be allowed their feebleness so long as their accompanying hands could wield a sword. Later, once the war is over, she knows her own Black Guards will relish her wish to have George’s men killed.

The curse of it all, however, is that the war remains unfinished, without even a tentative idea of when it may find its end. The Military Advisor has begun talking of retreating back to the palace for a few months to regroup and rethink their strategy, and Regina hates him for it, even if she can see the heavy signs of exhaustion etched into his features. The duke is getting old for the business of war, and even if Regina knows he’ll find his death in the midst of battle, she can’t help but think that perhaps he should have led this incursion from the palace, where men his age and of no use to her remain. He’d be far less irritating with hundreds of miles between them, incapable of berating her for her impulsiveness and snappishness, as he’s taken to doing as of late. It’s a shame, that she should find a man she respects turning into a simpering fool.

Then again, the impasse they are stuck in is getting to everyone, far beyond fist fights and discomfort. She fears dear Rivers might be going insane, since he’s spent the past fortnight swearing up and down that they’re being watched by _winged monkeys_ , of all things.

Regina is no better, though, even if she knows how to look impassive in the face of adversity. She feels nothing of the sort, however. Rather, nervous energy tickles under her skin, stealing away her sleep and making the dark hours of the night ones she fears, for they bring with them tumbling thoughts of past pains and debts unpaid. She thinks that Snow White must surely be enjoying such nights, asleep peacefully in the arms of her true love while Regina dwells with her thoughts instead, restless. Snow White has always been fortune’s favorite, after all, and even in times of war, where Regina walks over the ground as a goddess of battle, Snow should be the one allowed peace in her stead. She hates her the most at night, she muses, when the memories of her jumble themselves and tease her with the pretty princess Snow had once been, the one Regina had once thought she could love, could be her sister. 

Regina distracts herself to the best of her ability. She drinks too much, works feverishly over maps and figures, rides atop her favored horse. She fucks Nestor with nearly furious intent, basking in the smooth tones of his voice, tracing his right arm with nimble fingers, where a snake inked in black adorns his wonderful golden skin. He tells her that he loves her when she’s moving above him, invariably, and she knows it to be as fleeting a feeling as Little Ace’s taste for her lovers had once been. Her little cousin, lost to the whims of destiny, who’d claimed to love passionately every person who’d graced her bed if only briefly, and whose fickleness Regina had laughed away. Nestor’s love is no more permanent than his romantic notion that Regina is but a tragic figure that he must save from herself, a girl lost within the strength of her own masks.  

Nonetheless, she never lets him stay by her side in the hours of sleep, that kind of intimacy far beyond what she’s willing to offer. She dreads the loneliness, however, and so she has little Hildred sleep on a cot at her feet, ready to attend her were she to wish for something. Sleep eludes her but for bursts of tiredness that drown her into light and unfulfilling slumber, and so she usually abstracts herself with the missives she receives from the palace. Not long ago, the roads had been far too dangerous to risk frequent correspondence, so she could say that enjoying a thick stack of letters is a luxury. What the world has come to, that she should be grateful for something so inane. She can’t deny that she is, even when father has stopped writing about his days altogether, and has simply taken to transcribing the stories he used to tell her as a child, leaving them imprinted in his impeccable and elegant writing for her to enjoy. He only writes in his mother tongue, as if he might reclaim her baby girl by reminding her of joys from the past. It’s foolish, really, and yet Regina can’t help but love him all the more for it.

Most other missives come from old Countess Ninny and Duchess Adela, both of them precise and concrete in their recounting of events, yet mindlessly annoying in their long complaints about each other. Nonetheless, they’re the best hands she has when it comes to taking care of the palace in her absence, so if she has to put up with them, the least they can do for her is put up with each other.

At the end of the day, most everything feels pointless, herself included. Oh, the big bad Evil Queen stuck behind a range of mountains, undecided and even, dare she think it, mildly scared, if not completely aware of what, distracting herself with notions of the glory of war and the possibility of a family built by her own tastes, rather than by strokes of fate. There is nothing to the people around her but a collection of quirks that work as momentary diversions, easily replaceable and impossible to care for, and as time moves forward and she remains still, she can’t help but revile from her own behavior, for allowing herself to fall into the futility of it all.

Darkness comes to her then, surrounds her like a cloud of dust and refuses to let go, the grip it has on her heart already an open gash in which to fester. Nothing brings her peace from such a thing, not sex nor drinks, not the feel of a horse’s soft hair under her hand, and most certainly not the pervasive and vomit-inducing scent of the battle camp around her. The longer she stays, shimmered down by the idea that if she moves she may just loose this war, the more she falls prisoner to the blistering decay of the years past.

 

* * *

 

It is a chilly morning that finds her amongst her horses, dismounting her favored mare after welcoming the day galloping atop its back, for lack of a better activity to calm her nerves upon waking up. _Butterscotch,_ named after the bold, nearly orange shade to her hair has been a faithful mount during this time, and yet Regina can’t help but feel regretful at reluctantly leaving _Rocinante_ behind. He’s not quite an old horse yet, but the demands of the pace of war would have been a risk for his resistance. The huntsman had been tasked with his care, but still Regina wishes for his old friend to be with her.

Whatever the case may be, Regina leaves one last caress on _Butterscotch’s_ muzzle before she makes the long walk back to her tent. The camp awakens around her, and as her boots dig on the wet, muddy ground, she considers her next move. For there _must_ be a move, or she shall go insane. It had rained last night, and the morning shines above them with the last rays of sunshine of the season, the crispness of the air against her cheeks speaking of the cold weather returning to them. She won’t wait until the winter conquers them. She can’t even stomach the idea of such passivity, and she most certainly doesn’t want the memories that the quiet gloom of the cold season will bring her.

Winter has always presented itself as a season for unwanted memories, something about the cold winds and the shorter days bringing about a cozier mood and a taste for nostalgic recollections. It must be a tradition that she’s dragged with herself from the days of Leopold’s court, since the winter always built a certain atmosphere about the palace that the rest of the seasons were usually free from. Their visitors would stay for longer periods of time, if there were few of them, and a false sense of family would conquer them all, making it seem as if they were more to each other than figures trapped within the same inescapable conventions. Baroness Irene had liked it best, and had always made a point of staying at least a whole month with them, proud as a peacock when Regina chose to acquiesce to her request for noisy yet small tea parties for the women to flirt and joke moderately. Snow had liked it too, and Regina can’t say that she had completely hated spending most of her time taking long and nearly silent walks by her side, both of them seeking refuge with each other as means to escape other members of the court without incurring in any disrespect.

It seems to Regina that the cold has a way of quieting her temper, and of tinting her memories in rosy colors and kinder affections than she’s ever truly felt. Thus, she has no use for winter, or for its nostalgic fancies, unless she wishes to farther draw out the inevitable end of this conflict.

Regina enters her tent with her mind not quite made up yet, half distracted by the thought of some warm bread to break her fast, and still it takes her no longer than a second to spy a pair of trespassers right on the very bed she calls hers. Then again, she supposes Hildred and General Alston weren’t quite aiming at subtlety when they decided to tarnish her linens with their rutting. Anger slips from her completely as she dives straight into disgust, the sight of Alston’s naked ass pumping away certainly not one she would have ever wanted to acquaint herself with.

She coughs, pointedly and briefly, and speaks before the couple caught _in flagrante_ has time to react to her presence. “Hildred, remind me to give you a lesson in taste once I’m done burning my linens.”

Hildred’s reaction is a silly little squeak quickly followed by an awkward scramble from underneath the general, after which she stands at the feet of her own cot dumbfounded, her rumpled skirts falling back down over her thighs, while her floundering hands fail at righting her blouse, leaving a small breast naked still. Alston, for his part, just laughs. Of course he does, that uproarious sound that makes Regina wants to crush his windpipe, which in all fairness, is exactly what she does. Her magic bursts forwards with less precision and more force than she intends to, and so the crack of his bones is loud and just a tad sickening, leaving his head in an unnaturally awkward position once his body, weighted by death, falls back down atop her bed. Then, Regina is the one to laugh. Not five steps away from her, Hildred swallows back a scream, resulting on a pitiful half choked sob.

“Oh, don’t, please; you can certainly aspire to something better,” Regina snaps, walking the few steps that separate her from her bed and the body on top of it, and twists her lips into a grimace at the sight of flabby flesh and old muscles damaged with ugly scars. “You have a stomach on you, don’t you, dear?” Regina wonders, repulsed by the thought of ever having this man above her.

That said, she turns towards the unmoving girl, whose round eyes remain attached to the unmoving body of her former lover. She sighs, taking a step into Hildred’s personal space, and taking in her rumpled appearance with the weariness of a disappointed mother. She reaches for her with steady hands, and fixes her up, covering her breast and straightening her blouse and wrinkled skirt, and arranging her hair so it falls in pretty curls over her shoulders and covers the unfortunate red mark no doubt caused by the general’s lips high on the side of her neck.

“I suppose I should be grateful for your indiscretion. I _had_ been looking for an excuse to rid myself of this buffoon.” She stops herself at that, pondering her words thoughtfully before she laughs humorlessly and says, “Duchess Adela always insists that there’s something quite rude about thanking someone for bringing death about, however.”

Something about her statement makes the girl react, and has her bringing a sharp look right against Regina’s, as furious as the one she had offered on that first night, when she’d intended to kill her. Hildred’s hands fly up, meeting Regina’s and pushing them away from her frame right before she takes a step back and away.

“I loved him!”

Regina snorts at that, because _honestly,_ that they’re fighting a war and this should be the kind of drama that she must deal with. “Don’t be an idiot, now.”

“And he loved me, you-you monster! We would have taken you down, both of us, we woul–”

“So that was his plan? Using _you?_ ” Regina interrupts, far too amused to be angry at the thought. “The man was more of a fool than I thought, then.”

“He wasn’t using me, he loved me!”

“Oh, do wake up, dear girl; there’s only so much patience I have for stupidity.”

Regina spies the girl’s movements before she can even begin launching herself at her, and stops her short with a wave of magic, keeping her still at the same time she robs her of her voice, completely uninterested in whatever further protests she may have. She suspects it would be nothing that she hasn’t heard a million times before, anyway.

“This rebellious act was quite cute the first time, but it has already gotten old,” Regina states, voice hard and smile settled into a tight line, her eyes piercing Hildred’s gaze. “Now, promise to be a good girl?”

Regina frees the girl’s voice, and almost immediately gets a trembling _Yes_ for an answer. Truth be told, she doesn’t know whether she’s disappointed or glad at the quick submission, but for now, she will take it. Still, she might yet get herself some entertainment.

“I want to hear you say it; say, _I promise to be a good girl, Your Majesty._ ”

Hildred offers no sign of rebellion before shaping the words in a shaky tone. “I promise to be a good girl, Your Majesty.”

“Good,” Regina says, a smirk touching her lips. “As punishment, you may stay there for the time being. The spell will wear off in…” she taps her chin, thoughtfully, “oh, well, a few hours I’m sure. Hardly more of a hardship that laying with _that,_ I should say.”

As for the general himself, his job is not quite done yet, so with a twirl of her hands, Regina transports him outside and to the part of the camp inhabited by his peers, as clear a message as Regina can send them that she’s done being talked down by George’s men.

Leaving Hildred trapped within her spell and once again robbed of her voice, Regina takes her time making her way towards George’s men. As she walks, she finds that she misses the comfort of her palace’s floors, and the delicate feel of her finer dresses against her skin, particularly after a long and luxurious warm bath. After the wildness of war, Regina’s body craves extravagance, and the sudden itch for her queenly lifestyle only makes her walk faster, even as she realizes she misses the sound of her heels clacking against the hard floor.

By the time she makes her way to her destiny, there are already gasps and screaming alike, Alston’s dead body at the center of a circus of outrage. Regina laughs, unabashedly, and smiles in delight when the sound immediately calls for silence and reverence, and has Alston’s men opening up a path for her as they stare. Not quite her most dramatic entrance, but she supposes it will have to do. Alston’s body, twisted, awkward and still naked, cock hard even after dead and eyes and mouth half open in a grotesque parody of a frown, laying among them on the cold mud, stares up at her as quiet accusation. Regina thinks she hasn’t felt quite as serene as she does in this moment since the man made her way into her camp.

Silence reigns for a moment, and Regina takes a moment to study faces that she has never mustered any interest in until she lands on a pair of well-known eyes. Under the morning sun and in contrast to his dead general, Nestor looks nearly unreal, the golden hues of his skin never as live-looking as right now. His mouth, however, is locked in an expression of surprise, and his gaze betrays the fact that he no longer thinks her a figure of tragedy, but has rather chosen to see the horror resting behind. Regina muses it will be better on the long run, and dismisses whatever disappointment might strike her over such a trifle matter.

Instead, she smiles, and slowly states, “Captain, it looks as if you have just been promoted.”

It’s then that one of the nameless men finally dares rage against her, a guttural roar leaving his mouth as he runs towards Regina, sword in hand. Regina’s hardly an idiot, however, and so it is Claude’s sword what meets the man’s right before he can reach her at all. A fight follows, the clanging of swords music to her ears, and the quiet groans of other men making her smile when Rivers, along with two other members of her Black Guard, surround her protectively. Regina allows the fight to go on for a while, secretly cheering Claude on when his blade graces the other’s man arm twice in quick succession. She tires of it quickly, however, and when she sees a trickle of blood on Claude’s cheek, she does away with his opponent herself, one swift twist of her hand enough to finish him, and have him dropping heavily next to his general. Then, she sighs, her serenity giving way to weariness all too suddenly.

The men about her are looking at her in silence, and she wants to think that in awe just as well, and Regina wishes her life hadn’t become an infinite stream of shows of strength. She seems doomed to disrespect, and if only she didn’t see her hand forced towards violence in order to receive any deference from those who should by right give it to her, then perhaps she would have never been made to wear the title of Evil Queen. Alas, she despairs of this world and has little faith left for anyone, so it will be violence she offers if it’s what will get her every desire attended to.

“As I said,” she speaks after a moment, planting her eyes straight into Nestor’s, “the troops are in your hands now, Captain. Have them ready in two days’ time; we shall leave at first light.”

 

* * *

 

It takes Duke Nicholas far shorter a time to come to her than Regina expected, but then again, news do seem to travel incredibly fast at the camp. He enters her tent with a grim semblance, shoulders set tight and arms crossed over his chest, and to his credit, he doesn’t even flinch when he catches sight of her torched beddings, or of the still trapped Hildred standing motionless and quiet at the corner of the tent.

“Good morning, dear duke,” Regina says, welcoming grin curling her lips even as her eyes remain focused on the task before her, namely, the shallow cut on Claude’s cheek, still a deep red in color but no longer bleeding. She presses a spot of magic to it, and once that’s done, she has him leave even before he can utter a word of thankfulness. The duke has come to say his piece, after all, and Regina would rather get it over with as swiftly as possible.

Ever the gentleman, the duke curtly responds, “Good morning, Your Majesty.” Quickly, however, he follows his polite statement with a tone brimming with frustration, and quips, “And it was quite the morning.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Your Majesty, could you please b–”

“Ugh, duke, allow me to stop you right there,” Regina interrupts, looking at the remnants of her linens somewhat forlornly. She’d made such a fuss about travelling with her best beddings, only to have them sullied in such a manner. Turning away from them half-heartedly, she gives her complete attention to the duke, lest she feel tempted to finish her revenge altogether and kill little, useless Hildred.

“You may spare us both your speech,” Regina commences, before the duke can beat her to the punch. “I’m fairly certain I know what your complaints will be, and yes, I am aware of the risks. Despite what you or Duchess Adela like to think, I’m not completely thoughtless.”

“Your Majesty, surely you know you have our utmost respect,” the Advisor says almost immediately. He seems affronted by the mere thought of not holding her to unconditional consideration, and while Regina knows him genuine, he won’t be able to deny that he fears her abruptness, and constantly cautions against it.

Nonetheless, Regina smiles at him candidly, resting a hand briefly against his crossed arms, and finding herself surprised when the duke presses his own above hers, and gives it a fleeting squeeze.

“I fear we may see a rebellion within our ranks, Your Majesty.”

Regina nods at the statement, not quite disagreeing with it, even when she doesn’t accept it. “Captain Nestor has as much of a tight hold on the battalion as Alston did, and the he isn’t an idiot. Our need for each other is mutual, and if that lot want to see their king again, they will stay put.”

“Will they now, Your Majesty? Your…” he lingers, coughs uncomfortably, and then settles on, “ _dalliance–_ Your dalliance with the Captain may suggest that he’s laid his loyalties before you, and that Alston’s death wasn’t accidental.”

Regina barks out a laugh at that. Sweet, considerate duke, who won’t call things by their name out of sheer politeness. “It wasn’t accidental, dear.”

“So you see how insurrection is unavoidable! This men are thirsty for blood, and now they have a reason to claim it.”

“Maybe so, but then I plan on giving them a better enemy to face,” Regina states, knowing for certain that the duke will advise against her new plan, and not caring one bit. She’s done waiting, and she will sweat blood and tears if she must to end this war, but she _will_ end it. “We ride forward in two days, and whatever excuse you’re preparing against it right now, I won’t listen to, duke. Two days,” she repeats, lifting two fingers up and before the duke’s face as if to make her point even clearer. “I want you to have the camp ready. You may rely on Claude while I’m gone.”

“Gone, Your Majesty?”

“I have a visit to make.”

“Never mind your visits, Your Majesty. Surely you know this plan is insane! We’re running a siege, and the enemy will need these paths if they don’t wish to starve, you know this!”

“It could be years before that happens, and I don’t wish to waste one more day in this war,” she responds.

“Go back to the palace, then, Your Majesty. Rest, command your battalions from your throne.”

Regina sneers, disgusted even at the thought. She knows it would be the common path, yet prevailing choices have never been her own. No, she won’t retreat, and she won’t wait, not one more hour than she deems necessary. After all, this war has been clouding their days for a year and a half at least, and yet, Regina feels as if she’s been fighting it for far longer a time. Hasn’t she, truly? Hasn’t she fought this war for as long as she’s lived, trapped by everyone else’s rules and expectations, imprisoned under the privilege of others and the power they have held over her? Wasn’t she fighting every time she hugged Snow White and bit her own tongue to stop herself from choking the life out of her, every night she spent in the embrace of a man she despised, every time fate gifted her with nothing but loss, every time she quieted her grief under a mask of false content? Moreover, wasn’t she fighting as she crouched inside the humid walls of a cellar, a lost little girl, hungry, ever so hungry?

Steel in her voice, Regina lifts her fingers back up again, and repeats, “Two days, duke.”

 

* * *

 

Maleficent’s fortress smells of burning wood and dust, of the lingering cool scent of the night winds right before the sky darkens, and it’s the nicest thing Regina has breathed in for what feels like decades. In fact, she takes a deep breath the moment the purple smoke of her arrival dissipates, closing her eyes and telling herself that she’s chasing the aromas of warmth, and not trying to steal one more short moment before she faces the friend she hasn’t seen in over a year. She hugs her middle, hands soft at the sides of her stomach, and opens her eyes to a familiar view.

Maleficent sits by the fire, long body stretched comfortably and goblet in hand, one of her nice smiles curling her lips as she motions towards Cruella, busy mixing some sort of concoction while her dogs rest at her feet. She can’t see Ursula, but she can hear her puttering around somewhere close. Considering the company she has been keeping lately, she’s not even sorry that the two knuckleheads are here as well, even when she only intends to speak to Maleficent.

No one acknowledges her, but Regina knows Maleficent has noticed her here, standing just a few feet away and probably looking a bit silly. She thinks she should have taken the time for a bath and a change of clothes, feeling suddenly all too underdressed in her riding pants and loose shirt, with her hair probably caked in mud and curled impossibly in a too-tight braid. She probably smells, too, but she’s just about lost all sensibility to the odors of battle and crowded camps, and she’s not certain. All the same, she lifts her chin up high and coughs to make her presence known. It gets no results whatsoever, and Regina knows she’s being pettily punished with disregard. Maleficent has always had a knack for making her feel unimportant, and while Regina, younger and brash, had cursed her for the stunt, this time around it only manages to make her smile. It’s been far too long, and Regina has a world outside of these walls to be angry at, so there’s hardly any need to enrage herself over the minor games played by a good, old friend.

Nonetheless, she coughs again, and when she receives no answer, she coughs one more time. It does the trick, making Maleficent lift mirthful eyes up towards her own.

“Yes, my darling, you’re here, I can see that,” Maleficent drawls. “Are you expecting a parade?”

“I could have done with a bit of fanfare, to be honest; maybe some trumpets.”

Maleficent smiles at her, something warm and small, a little guarded. However, whatever small moment of intimacy they may have shared is utterly ruined by Cruella’s shrill laughter echoing around them. Regina flinches, shooting a glare that Cruella ignores in favor of shaking a strange looking bottle in her direction, the contents sloshing noisily inside.

“Join us, darling, we’re having martinis.”

Regina lifts both eyebrows in question, but before she can accept the offer to try one of Cruella’s strange and often entirely too bitter brews, she hears the telling shuffle of Ursula’s walk somewhere behind her, and turns her way. Ursula offers a fake grin, and once she’s next to Regina, exaggerates the gesture of sniffing her.

“Maybe take a bath first, queenie.”

“Oh no, don’t,” Cruella replies before Regina can get a word in edgewise. “She smells just like my dogs.”

Regina scoffs, immediately crossing her arms over her chest and suppressing the impulse to stick her tongue out at Maleficent when she keeps looking at her, her smile now far too amused for Regina’s liking, and entirely too annoying when coupled with Ursula’s and Cruella’s paired peals of laughter. She ends up growling her agreement and turning around before any other comment can follow her out of the room and in her search for Maleficent’s maid, Leonor.

Regina finds her with the ease of someone who has spent many long hours inside the walls of this fortress, and Leonor is both happy to welcome her and to scrunch her nose in her direction, getting a bath ready for her even before she has to ask. The warm water Leonor prepares smells heavenly, and Regina doesn’t shy away from moaning when she finally soaks herself in it, not even paying attention to Leonor deciding to throw her clothes to the fire. The water turns brown in almost no time at all, and Regina replaces it with a quick spell before settling down completely, letting the water and the warmth work their magic. Her limbs loosen up almost immediately, and Regina feels a tightness that she wasn’t even aware she was carrying lift from her shoulders. She sighs, softly.

Leonor makes it her mission to take care of her, and while Regina poses a token complaint, it gets swiftly ignored. Leonor’s surprisingly smooth hands, armed with linens, sponges and oils, rub at her until her skin is neither white nor gold, but rather reddish, and almost impossibly soft.

“Caked mud all over your, m’lady,” Leonor complains. “You are worse than her ladyship, and more stubborn, too.”

Regina lets her grouch about her as she pleases, impossibly relaxed under her care. She truly does feel as if Leonor’s taking a year of mud out of her skin and from under her nails. Magic has served her well in keeping herself somewhat decent, but no spell will ever compare to hot water and a wonderfully persistent maid.

Her hair gets an equal lovely treatment, being released from its perfunctory braided prison and washed with rose water scented with nutmeg and clove, as well as thoroughly combed despite Regina’s protests whenever one of Leonor’s energetic passes pulls a knot too carelessly.

“You will rip my hair out, woman!” Regina whines through the process, holding her head as if to stop the pain.

“Should cut it out altogether for all the care you’ve taken, m’lady,” is Leonor’s quick answer.

Regina laughs, amused by the audacity of this woman that she has known for a very long time now, and who’s never had much of a problem saying whatever it is that goes through her mind. “Oh, I _have_ missed you, Leonor,” she murmurs.

“Kind words, m’lady.”

“Kind, you say?” Regina wonders out loud, breathing in the lavender scent wafting up from the bath now, and relaxing her shoulders even further against the tub. “I don’t believe anyone has ever accused me of that particular trait.”

Leonor ignores her altogether, the way she tends to do when people become thoughtful around her. She’s never had much use for over thinking, dear hard-working Leonor, and Regina supposes it's the best approach when one spends her days in the employment of a dragon witch with a questionable taste in company. There is no denying that she’s a gentle soul wrapped up in no-nonsense discourse and practical ideas, or that Regina will forever hold a soft spot of the woman’s heart. Proof enough is Leonor insisting on feeding her before she can _go and get yourself drunk with those ladies of terror,_ and leaving her to get dressed and primped only after Regina has accepted the dish of bread soaked in warmed wine and honey that is left before her. It’s not a hardship, the robust meal settling her stomach as much as the water has settled her frame.

Regina takes her time dressing up, choosing to conjure up one of her favorite gowns but not straight onto her body, just so she can feel the fabric slide over her skin as she dresses herself. It’s one of the softer ones, dark blue velvet over a soft corset that buttons comfortably at the back. Nothing too frilly or fancy, and comfortable enough that it’s not too much of a step up from the clothes she’s been wearing at the camp. It’s silky soft to the touch, however, and tightens in all the right places about her body, the cleavage nearly conservative when compared to her usual, but leaving her neck and collarbones free of fabric and beautifully framed. She sits herself by one of Maleficent’s mirrors, carefully putting on long earrings and leaving her neck free of jewelry but for the chain holding Daniel’s ring. Then, she takes advantage of all of Maleficent’s perfumes and balms, rebuilding herself piece by piece with care and unexpected wonder. She thinks she looks beautiful, never mind that her hands will take a while before they recover their smoothness, that her right arm still sports the remnants of burnt skin right under her elbow, or that her face is a little too dry, and a little too sun-kissed. She takes a moment to delight herself with the bliss of shallow comfort.

By the time she makes her way back into the main chamber, she is so relaxed that she’s nearing sleepiness. For that very same reason she foregoes shoes altogether, her feet naked under her slightly dragging gown, while also letting her hair fall loose down her back, thick curls lighter than she remembers and free of the tightening of any over elaborate knot. She feels as if she’s walking on clouds, her lungs expanding by the second. Funnily enough, she’d felt equally liberated when her conquering journey had begun, but the war that had given her freedom and unconcern once, had then removed it steadily, until the camp had been as much of a prison as the palace had once been. It’s not strange, then, that she should find refuge within the drafty yet warm chambers of Maleficent’s fortress.

She finds Maleficent alone by the fire, and as she makes her way towards her, she quietly comments, “A private audience, what an honor.”

“Don’t be cheeky,” Maleficent responds, frowning in mock upset even as she allows Regina to plant a small kiss against her cheek. Regina lingers, not being able to help herself when Maleficent’s scent reaches her, wine and cinnamon and honey.

Regina sits down then, across Maleficent and in one of those uncomfortable tall chairs that rule over the room, and thankfully accepts the goblet Maleficent all but forces into her hands. She takes a small sip, and then a longer one once she tastes the cherry wine Maleficent knows she favors. By the fire, Maleficent looks the prettiest Regina remembers her being, blue eyes calm and bright, light skin touched by ever moving orange hues, dark blond locks falling down one side of her neck and revealing the other, the lines long and beautiful, probably cool to the touch. Sitting beside her, her little infatuation with Captain Nestor seems frivolous, and having prolonged the affair for more than a single night all the more childish.

“The Evil Queen herself, my, oh my,” Maleficent tells her then, eyes shiny with mirth. She’s in a good mood, then, and Regina does nothing but smile at the statement.

Maleficent reaches for her then, her whole frame slow as her hand finds its way to Regina’s cheek, the back of her fingers cool against her skin. She lingers there minutely, as if thoughtful, and then hums under her breath as she traces a path down Regina’s jaw and to the back of her neck, where her long fingers tangle in Regina’s long, loose tresses. She combs her way down gently, and only moves back once she’s done, all her movements equally lazy.

“Much better,” Maleficent judges. “The stink of muck is not quite your best look.”

Regina scoffs, picking at an invisible piece of lint on her skirt as she replies, “Not that the three of you seem very much concerned with the matters of the world, but I _am_ fighting a war, dear. There’s hardly any time left to worry about fashion.”

“How very serious, my darling, the queen and her war,” Maleficent drawls, mockery in her tone and in the short-lived and bitter laugh that follows the statement.

Regina narrows her eyes, willing herself to remain calm. She has come here knowing Maleficent would be non-chalant and uncaring when it came to her plight, and if she hopes to receive a positive answer to the request she’s come to pose, she might as well put up with her friend and do her best at pleading her case.

“Your princess was here, did you know?” Maleficent wonders suddenly, smiling slyly when that catches all of Regina’s attention. “Well, not _here,_ of course,” Maleficent clarifies, motioning around her. “She requested an audience with dear, old Stefan to plead for help against the unlawful warfare of the Evil Queen, and against the oppression of her people, or something of the sort. Very earnest, and just as boring.”

“I haven’t seen Stefan’s crest anywhere in the battlefield,” Regina answers immediately. She would have taken notice if Snow’s allies had come from such a faraway kingdom, after all, particularly since she’s had no dealings with Stefan, and the king should have had no reason to side with nor against her.

Maleficent laughs yet again, toasting an invisible partner before gulping down the rest of her drink, her eyes smiling along with her lips when she says, “Poor Stefan couldn’t bring himself to help, now could he? He’s still so very distraught by his daughter’s curse, you see; and his wife so weak, too.”

Smiling softly in the face of her friend’s delight, Regina requests, “You will have to tell me what it was that Briar Rose did to you one of these days.”

“It’s hardly of any importance anymore, is it? So many years lost, little girl, and no matter what, she’s still the queen, and I’m still the witch.”

Regina hums, spying Maleficent’s intentions from a mile away. She says, “Must you start patronizing me so soon, dear? I will see the end of this war, and I will be a queen, a witch and everything else that happens to be in between.”

The statement is not quite as passionate as she wishes it to be, but rather edges its way into desperation. The truth of the matter is, however, that she has little time for philosophical arguments on the nature of her fight. She doesn’t have time for Maleficent’s proclivity for disheartening ideas of the place they occupy in the world, just as she no longer has anything in her left to care for whichever titles the world deems her worthy of. Wherever she goes, palaces, battlegrounds and every place in between, it’s obvious that she will never be what she’s meant to be, so she might as well be what she wishes to be and nothing else. Duchess Adela had been succinct once, plainly telling her that her people would never love her simply because of _the kind of woman that she is._ She supposes then, that she can’t hope to be loved in a world that believes that there’s a right kind of woman, and that said woman is Princess Snow White. She’d settled long ago for being feared, rather than loved, and Maleficent’s discourse of gloomy destinies won’t discourage her this time around.

Silence lingers a tad too long between them, comfortable yet charged, even if Regina is not quite sure of the reason why. It might just be that the last time they had seen each other they had parted ways in between heartbreak and promises of an inevitable and ugly fate, but then it might just be the inescapable air of sensuality that always surrounds them, even when they’re disagreeing. Whatever the case, when Maleficent finally speaks, Regina nearly jumps, surprised.

“She’s very beautiful,” is what she says, and when Regina blinks confusedly up at her, wryness takes over her tone as she clarifies, “Your princess.”

Regina snorts, mildly offended. “Of course she is; fairest of them all, they say.”

Her tone must not be as non-chalant as she tries to make it, for the next thing she knows Maleficent is leaning forward, languidness gone yet movements fluid, cat-like as she wraps her fingers in the hair at the nape of Regina’s neck. She pulls, hard and indelicate, and when Regina hisses her complaint Maleficent quiets it with a hard kiss, her lips unforgiving and yet wonderful against Regina’s own. The touch doesn’t linger, and Regina follows it with half lidded eyes and parted lips only to be rejected, Maleficent’s hand quick to leave her. Maleficent leans back against her chair, back straight yet limbs relaxed, and Regina is left feeling bereft.

“Spare me the pity party, and just tell me what you want.”

Regina licks her lips, chasing the last remnants of Maleficent’s taste as she looks up at her. There’s fury in her eyes, the kind that turns them yellowish and strange, the kind that speaks of the animal hidden under human skin. It angers Regina, somewhere deep and almost forgotten where she’s unconsciously reminded that even her friends are nothing of the sort, that there is no one in the world to trust but herself. Love _is_ weakness, and how disappointed mother would be to know that Regina fails to grasp the lesson at every turn.

“And why would I want anything from you at all, Mal?” she questions, biting, her lips a tense line that soon turns mocking, hurtful. “What could you possibly have to offer me?”

“Quit your game and shake that sickening superiority away from your face, Regina,” Maleficent answers, body curling forward with the same aggression firing up her eyes, making her suddenly look taller. “You always want something, you selfish little girl. Once upon a time all you sought was shelter and sex, and now you barely have time for a drink before you’re spewing nonsense about curses or wars, and I am so very tired of you.”

Regina matches Maleficent’s fire with her own, standing up when Maleficent does, meeting her stance with one of equal confidence, as if physically standing up to her will help her case. How dare Maleficent diminish them to a business equation, to caprice and greed? How dare she be tired of her, how dare she become part of the world that is so adamant on opposing Regina? Fury drives her next step, the one that pushes her into Maleficent’s personal space, and the one that makes her ignore the threat her friend poses. No matter Maleficent’s taste for what had once been a term of endearment, she’s no longer a little girl, and she has no fear to spare, not even when she feels magic crackling between them, the heavy weight of Maleficent’s primeval spell settling itself around and over them, making her shadow large and looming, turning her into a dragon even as she remains in her human form.

“Just what do you want, Regina?” Maleficent asks yet again, her tone betraying her violent demeanor, and lingering between them with exhausted softness. “State your business and leave me be.”

Regina bites her lower lip, thoughtful. Maleficent is not wrong: she does want something, and beating around the bush denying her accusations won’t do them any good. She’s infuriated, nonetheless, left feeling off-kilter, as if not even the place she occupies in Maleficent’s life is what it should be. She had recoiled at the idea that they might be enemies one day, but if she insists that she’s exhausted of Regina’s presence and desires, then she’s no better than everyone else, and simply one more obstacle in her path towards victory. With that in mind, Regina swallows, noticing how dry her mouth is, and what a pasty taste the wine has left behind. Determined, she chooses to pose her demand, and dares hope that it will be answered positively, and Maleficent be brought back into a friendly light.

“There will be a battle, soon. A risky one that I am not guaranteed to win. Unless…”

“Unless?”

“Unless of course I had something, or rather someone that the enemy won’t expect, dear. Like a dragon.”

Maleficent laughs, and the sound is so loud inside the otherwise quiet chambers that Regina has to forcibly suppress herself from cringing. The sound is unnatural, guttural, and nothing like Maleficent’s usual weary chuckles, those that are always half amused and half mocking, and always impossibly warm. There is no warmth left between them, however, and Maleficent is quick to prove it by reaching forward and holding Regina’s chin in a tight grip, long fingers trapping her face and forcing her forward with strength far beyond a human’s.

“So many years and this is how it ends? You want me to be one of your _minions_?”

Regina scoffs, reaching up and lightly wrapping her hand about Maleficent’s wrist, the gesture meant to soothe. “Don’t be so dramatic,” she replies, aloof.

Maleficent shakes her head briefly, letting go of her then and no doubt leaving reddish imprints behind. She soothes them, a thumb touching Regina’s cheek with such utter gentleness that Regina fears suffering whiplash. But then, she has always been Maleficent’s weakness, and even at her most furious, she can never quite seem to hold onto her anger towards her.

“You’re the one who should stop being so dramatic,” Maleficent says, soft and warm, already letting her shoulders drop into a more placid frame.

Regina molds herself into Maleficent’s mood with equal easiness, dropping her aggressiveness and reaching up to keep Maleficent’s hand at her cheek, and angling herself into the touch. It’s no time before Maleficent is falling under her spell, responding to her nuzzling with weary tenderness lacing her voice.

“Forget your war, forget your princess; stay.”

Regina closes her eyes before the request, affection sipping into her every pore until she feels weak with it, as tired as Maleficent claims to be. She may be playing games and trying to force Maleficent’s hand, but there has always been more truth than strategy to her feelings for her, and the offer is by far the most tempting Regina’s ever heard. It has always been there, she knows, the never-spoken suggestion to leave it all behind and make herself a home in this fortress that has been a more important haven for her than she will ever admit to herself. Truthfully, Regina could fool herself into happiness here, where decadence escapes the decay of war and provides solace instead. A life of wine, fruit, sweet treats and indulgence, a life of laying naked in bed and of days dragging themselves without rhyme nor reason, a life with someone. And Maleficent is so beautiful that Regina can’t help it if what once bewitched her, bewitches her still, even if against her will. However, for as much as she cares for Maleficent, she doesn’t love her. At least, she doesn’t love her enough that her enchantment won’t wear thin too early, that no amounts of wine or smooth skin will make Regina forget of Snow White being queen and happy and in love and _alive._ It would eat at her, she knows, and not even Maleficent would be distraction enough.

Regina opens up her eyes to look straight into Maleficent’s clear ones, and counter proposes in a murmur, “Come with me, come and win this war with me.”

“Win it _for_ you, you mean,” Maleficent replies almost instantly, stealing her hand away from Regina’s touch in a too fast-paced motion, and taking a step back. “No, my darling, I fear you are on your own. Go and get yourself killed; I can’t say the world will be a worse place without you in it.”

The last barb stabs her without mercy, like a knife twisting in an open wound, and Regina is left speechless, failing at being angry while at the same time wishing she had it in her to be as equally hurtful. Then again, she suspects she has already been, for many years, and without even meaning to. _Good,_ she thinks, vicious.

“I won’t be happy when this is all over, Mal, and I might feel inclined to make you pay. I don’t like being told no.”

Maleficent laughs, already indifferent to her as she sits back down, her back to Regina while she pours herself another glass of wine. “Look at that, now I’m one of the people you threaten. How delightful.”

“Well, you didn’t think you were special, now did you?”

Maleficent’s eyes are liquid when she finally looks back up at her, and Regina can’t tell if they’re hurt or angry, or maybe something else altogether. Maleficent’s voice, though, is wistful and soft when she says, “Wouldn’t have dared, little girl.”

For a brief moment, Regina regrets everything that just transpired, but then, a sneer twists Maleficent’s face, not a smidgeon of feeling left in her when she says, “Goodbye, Regina.”

Goodbye it is, then, Regina thinks, blinking herself away in a cloud of purple smoke, and forcing herself to forget the interlude altogether. After all, there is still a war to win, and no diversions to be entertained.

 

* * *

 

Wind blows cold and bitter atop the mountain range, so thunderous that it’s deafening, and leaving an icy bite against her skin. Her lips are dry, and Regina licks at them, nervously reaching up to trace the length of her small scar, instinctive. Before her, a brewing cauldron lifts grey smoke up into the clouds, and she pushes her face into the vapors, feeling the welcoming heat and smelling the mixed scents of herbs and magic.

The potion is only meant to enhance her own magic, to push her incantation where she needs it to be. She means to conjure an invisibility cloak large enough to hide an army of thousands as they make their way through the path down by the beach and across the mountains, where they will fall upon the enemy’s troops as ghostly warriors, unseen until the last minute, when it will be too late. Dragon or no dragon, she knows the war will be played and won by one side or the other on this day and with this battle, and so Regina will willingly exhaust her own energies in such a conjuring without a sigh of regret. After all, what the enemy fears is the Evil Queen, and so it is the Evil Queen’s power what will defeat them. She’ll have to trust her men to do the rest of the work, however, for she knows the magic needed for this will leave her on the brink of death.

Leaning over the cauldron, hands holding onto its edge, Regina opens herself up, giving into the pull of the magic with a sigh of contentment, allowing the instinctive force to crawl its way down her arms and around her chest, conquering her very being in its path until she no longer knows who she is beyond the power contained within her. Magic flares and explodes, noisy and vibrant in the first moments, creating a black cloud high up above her, and flying only to where she wills it, where she needs it. The power surges and makes her fall to her knees, and she lets it go, losing her sense of time and her sense of self, pushing, pushing, pushing its way out of herself until darkness conquers her, an exhale leaving her parted lips right before she collapses, unconscious.

 

* * *

 

Over a year has passed since the war started, a year of blood and grime, of war sweeping through the lands with the strength of a thousand armies and the conviction of two women battling each other with the burden of an age old grievance. But when Regina wakes up, after three days of blurriness and confusion, after being drained of every inch of energy and power, she does so to a note – a note carried by a messenger clad in white and wearing her enemy’s crest, a note from Snow White’s hand. And Regina should know, for she would recognize such writing anywhere. Snow’s calligraphy is not quite as elegant as princess’ should be, even after all this time, and she still curls her s’s in a funny way. The note makes Regina smile, for it asks for an audience between the two of them and no one esle, one that must surely intend to look for a truce, for Snow’s army has been crushed beyond recognition under the attack of Regina’s invisible army. Intentions and possible traps matter not, for the Evil Queen will meet Snow White, and one way or another, this war will be over.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Do what you have to do, princess.  
> (2) It's not punishment, daddy, I'm not punishing you.  
> (3) My mighty general has fury for us both, my queen. Someone has to keep a cool head.


	10. Part X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW1: Mentions of past marital rape and past emotional abuse.
> 
> TW2: The farther this goes the more it deals with Regina's Evil Queen tendencies, so canon compliant type of violence and abuse; a little more violent than canon, actually.
> 
> TW3: While I've defined the Hunstman/Regina relationship as consensual up to this point, it does deal with obvious power imbalance and emotional abuse.
> 
> TW4: Abuse, violence and torture.
> 
> \---
> 
> Translations at the end, as always.
> 
> AN1: The events happening here are canon compliant to the best of my abilities, but I'm not taking into account whatever canon has been put forward after the end season 4.
> 
> AN2: Thanks, btw, to everyone who has shown interest in this story during the hiatus!

They take away her shoes. Unreasonably, despite the number of barbarous conditions that she finds herself surrounded by, it’s the sight of her bare feet that most displeases her. The feel of her bare soles on the uneven stone of her cell is cold and uncomfortable, and it makes her sick. Regina wonders, why of all things, Snow had ordered her jailors to take away her shoes, a particular deprivation that she’d never herself subjected her own prisoners to. It seems almost much too cruel, and the thought makes Regina laugh, tendrils of madness clinging to the bitter sound that dares part her dry lips.

Her audience with Snow White had occurred barely two nights ago, at sundown. Regina remembers feeling exhausted yet exultant, the possibilities endless as she climbed her way towards the mountain ridge that they had agreed upon, a secluded place far enough from both military encampments so that neither one of them had reason to suspect betrayal. A foolish thought, of course, since suspicion was all they could afford to have between them, other than outright hatred. Nonetheless, Regina had honored the agreement, climbing the rocky paths hidden amongst the thickest of trees above her armored horse and with a proud smile touching her lips. Why, she’d dare say she’d been excited at the prospect of laying her eyes upon Snow White once again, at the idea of seeing the marks war had surely etched upon the skin Regina remembered as being smooth and flawless.

The way things had unfolded, however, hadn’t allowed Regina much of an inspection, nor had they afforded her the triumph she’d already built herself up for. Instead, Snow had paid her good faith with further deception, and with the blood curling fairy magic that had condemned Regina to her current predicament – imprisoned in a cell; clad in worn down, cheap garments, like some common thief; barefooted.

She’s been confined in one of the north tower cells, high up at the top of the Royal Castle, and Regina supposes she should be thankful Snow hadn’t deemed the dungeons a better choice for a prison. After all, the cell has a window that opens to the world outside high above Regina’s head, and while it affords her no view, it does allow the early winter sun to trespass the shadows with rays that lack heat, but bring light as well as the delusion of freedom along with them. Nonetheless, the cell smells musty, of damp and old stone, of rot and the dark. It is eight paces long and ten paces wide, big enough for a dingy cot covered in grimy woolen blankets to stand at one of its corners, while still allowing Regina enough room to pace about were she to wish to do such a thing. Which she does, for the first five days at least, a caged animal no less restless than a trapped queen clad in itchy and heavy fabrics and being left uninformed and cold, with no other entertainment other than to rage and scream and throw cold and tasteless soups against the iron bars confining her.

On the eve of the sixth day, however, a mild rant demanding to be informed of the state of her followers, her army, her council, or simply enough, the decision pending over her head about her uncertain future, sees her stopping in her tracks, a mild hiss parting her lips as she stumbles forward, only her hand reaching out and grasping the edge of the cot stopping her from falling down into the cold stone floor.

“Your Majesty, are you alright?” One of the prison guards asks immediately, even before Regina can get her bearings and sit down on the cot.

 _The kind one,_ Regina thinks, whatever mild comfort she may have felt from the polite request immediately torn away by the second guard and his vexatious snort. He says something, too, something unpleasant and possibly disgusting that Regina refuses to acknowledge altogether, focusing instead on her foot. There’s a small cut on the fleshy part of her right sole, by her toe, and the crimson blood pouring from it is nearly hypnotizing. Regina watches it flow, slowly yet briefly, and touches the pad of her fingers softly around the wounded flesh, oblivious to whatever it is that her guards seem to be discussing. It’s pretty, she thinks, the red of her blood against the dirtied up, blackened sole of her shoeless foot, and the thought is so incongruous and insane that it makes her snap out of her trance, and drop her foot back on the floor. The small cut stings, and she bites her lower lip, hoping to avoid any exclamation of sudden pain.

Later that night, when the guard leaves a dinner tray behind, Regina finds a small vial of clear liquid and a piece of unsown and slightly coarse grey fabric sitting next to a bowl of foul smelling pottage and a cup of ale. She ignores the dinner completely, her nose scrunching up in disgust even as her stomach pangs in protest, and instead takes the vial and the fabric both. One sniff reveals the clear liquid to be alcohol, and the fabric, while coarse and cheap, is clean and long enough to be fashioned as a crude bandage. Regina fights the smile, but finally allows herself the small gesture while she cleans around the small cut on her foot, and even later as she wraps the fabric about it with fingers unused to such motions. When she stands back again and takes two small steps, the cut doesn’t sting so much anymore.

“Thank you, dear, that was considerate of you,” she states, looking before her at the plain wall and not at the guard standing outside her cell, careful not to get foolishly attached to someone who is, by all means and purposes, part of her pathetic failure and her torment both.

There are a total of six guards burdened with her watch, rotating on three different turns and always paired in twos, Regina can only guess so as not to leave anyone alone with her and with whatever power of persuasion she may yet possess. Of the six, three are stoic and unapproachable, walls of manly disapproval that won’t acknowledge her existence, lest they get themselves dirty by association, perhaps. Of the other three, one is perfectly polite if distant, respectful if inhospitable. He’s the head of the guard, his orders as crisp as the lightly greying hair at his temples and his eyes sharpened by age. He’d made his thoughts about her very clear on the very first day, about her unlawful war, her unlawful claim to the throne, her unlawful persecution of the true sovereign, _Queen Snow White_ , and her betrayal of all that was good and humane, ultimately consummated when she’d played her cards to have King Leopold murdered. Regina remembers this man, if her mind can’t quite grasp at his name. She remembers him standing by Leopold’s side when they’d been married, a tall and unmoving figure at his side during dinners and council meetings, a shadow following him down hallways, trudging along on long walks down by the beach, standing by the door of Regina’s chambers whenever Leopold paid her his nightly visits. She had never looked him in the eye back in the day, too afraid to crumble before her husband’s main guard, or perhaps too careful to do so, lest he see her true intentions hidden behind coy looks and deferential manners. Regina wonders if Snow remembers, too, and if that’s the reason for this man to find himself as the head of her jailors, a disdainful figure of a past long gone.

Whatever the case may be, this nameless guard of Leopold’s had been the first to leave her side when Snow White had been declared an enemy to the crown, and Regina guesses the first to join her rebellion as daughter of the king he’d respected so. His courteous manners, born and bred from a life of servitude, aren’t quite enough to mask his unsympathetic smugness at seeing Regina diminished and made prisoner. He wants her dead, she knows, he wants her dead and perhaps deeply hurt before she achieves deathly rest, and for that same reason his gracious disregard makes her despise him all the more. Such well-behaved disguises over such priggish beasts, and Regina wishes they allowed themselves the savagery that she would gladly answer in kind instead.

However, there is no depravity hidden away in the man’s scorn, or at least none of that basic manly instinct that Regina is so familiar with, and which her fifth guard is brimming with – the unapologetic and revolting nature of pure and simple debasement. He’s a pig, simply put, one with eyes that roam where they shouldn’t and lips that smirk with twists of perversion, one that would not turn her away were she to answer his looks with one of her own, and one who might not listen were she to say no to such advances.

“Now, boy, dirty hair and all, I’d do that in an instant,” he’d said the first day, playful elbow knocking his companion’s own, full lips widening a purposeful smile. “She might even thank me, the things people say of this one, you know what I mean?”

“As if anyone has ever not known what you mean, dear,” she’d snapped, fierce even behind bars, sitting at the edge of her small cot as if it were a throne, and challenging the man to look at her, to launch himself at her, to make a mistake and get himself punished in her name.

“Oooh,” he’d exclaimed, and then whistled as he gave her another once over. “Called me dear and everything.”

Fortunately, the head jailor had cut off any further comments, for otherwise Regina might have felt inclined to do something useless in a fit of rage. The orders from then on had been not to talk to her, and if possible, to refrain from even looking her way for too long a time. She’d been dubbed a dangerous woman, even without magic and in chains, after all. The orders and the warnings had been meaningless, however, for the guard had kept up his antics from then on and whenever he could get away with them. Regina hates him most of all, and she’s sworn to herself that she’ll find a way to gauge his eyes out before she leaves this world, a just payment for the crime of looking at her as if he has the right to do so.

Despite everything, amongst her prison guards, lays a sixth one. The kind one, as she’s come to think of the too young boy that looks as if he would rather be anywhere else than standing guard by any poor woman’s cell. He’s small and scrawny, his uniform sitting too big on his shoulders, and Regina muses it must have belonged to an older brother, perhaps dead in battle, or sickly, or wounded. Whatever the case, it dwarfs the boy, who looks all the more vulnerable for it, his fair complexion and wide blue eyes already failing to make a case for his strength, and the way he sometimes nervously eyes the sword resting by his hip enough to let Regina know that he’s never held it, and that he would rather never do so. It’s odd, Regina thinks, to find such innocence even after years of war, even while being judged for her crimes and while waiting for a death sentence, and for all of Regina’s anger towards the disloyalty of fate, she can’t help but be thankful that such a candid soul still exists. She wonders, often, and whenever he does something as small yet kind as find her something to dress her cut with, how long it will be before his innocence is stolen, broken or otherwise crippled by the world around him.

If Regina spends her time cataloguing her guards, then it is simply out of a sense of self-preservation, and not out of any real curiosity, however. Without distractions, she’ll consume herself until the point where she might be driven to do something foolish, and so it is that she resists the waiting game Snow has forced upon her by filling her mind with guard rotations and the quirks of her jailors, and by counting the hours of the day by the position of the little sun that enters the cell, following it as it goes round and round, creating shadows during the day until it dies during the long hours of the night.

The nights become nearly unbearable, when her guards are almost reverently silent and the cold breeze of the early winter forces her to make use of the rigid and itchy blankets she’s been provided with as her only source of warmth. She feels as if she could fade away completely then, as if the density of darkness could swallow her up, make it as if she never existed at all. It’s a fear of childhood, a fear of being forgotten inside a cellar and never rescued, of turning into a wailing inspirit inside the confines of her own house. Her mind ticks away persistently then, the little sleep she manages to catch populated by ghosts and light enough that the whistle of the wind is enough to knock the rest out of her. She’s impossibly tired, and yet she fears her fidgety naps, which offer no respite, and hold no answers.

Regina knows absolutely nothing about what might be going on outside this cell, and the lack of knowledge on the decisions being made gnaws at her, relentless. It’s been more than a fortnight since they brought her into the cell, and that was only after two days of travel from where she’d met Snow to George’s Royal Castle, which makes for entirely too long a time to have received neither visit nor judgment. Regina wonders constantly, then, about the fate of her council and her army, about how many of her followers dropped their weapons in surrender the moment her failure was declared to the world. She has no doubt the minor lords pledged fealty to Snow White in the first instant, most of them ambitious idiots with no sense of pride or principle beyond which royal figure might have them in highest consideration while posing the least demands. She’s positive that slimy Lord Randall and his buddy Lord Severin had been the first two to kneel before their new mistress, and that they had only been the first of many. She hates them, all of them, even if their betrayal is but part of a fantasy that she has no means to ascertain.

More than anything, she speculates about her closest advisors, pondering what Snow White’s little merciful hand might have done with them. After all, had Regina been the victor of their final battle, the first order of business for her would have been to leave Snow’s army generals and close friends headless, thus making an example out of them while at the same time disposing of those who might pose a direct threat despite the victory obtained. However, Regina supposes she would do well to count on Snow’s heart to weaken her mind, and she can’t help but conclude that perhaps most of her loyal subjects remain alive, if perhaps imprisoned. Then again, the populace might be calling for the blood of their enemy, and Snow may yet find it in herself to oblige, so long as the clinical touch of an execution stands between her and the idea of murder. Ultimately, even Leopold, who had been famously known for his distaste for the art of war, hadn’t hesitated in using his power to order the hand of his Royal Executioner at the time, and Snow had grown up with the knowledge of a sovereign’s rights carved into her privileged little mind, so that she may not shy away from impersonal and lawful death.

Nonetheless, had that been the case, Regina should have been dead by now, condemned for whichever crimes have been granted to her figure, and not being made to wait in silence, trapped inside these stone walls and behind iron bars. Regina figures that no one would question Snow were she to condemn her with little thought and less time, and yet Regina would swear upon the thought that Snow is torturing herself with the idea of giving this war of theirs the grand finale that it most certainly deserves. Regina would have had Snow’s heart by now, even dreams of it now, when it seems more far away than ever, and yet Snow must be twisting that little pretty head of hers, thinking that there might be a way to salvage the person Regina had once been in her eyes. Regina might have enjoyed thinking of the princess squirming over her and over her destiny, over the responsibility of the decision that will put an end to the only family she has left in this world. She can’t deny that, at times, it makes her laugh, startling her jailers with the seemingly uncalled for gesture, making them swear that she’s raving mad. And for all of that, she despises Snow even more for not having the guts to finish her once and for all, for failing to take the responsibility afforded to her now that she’s officially been made queen. In this, she’s weak, weak in a way that Regina has never been, and whatever satisfaction Regina may feel from the thought pales in comparison to the rage at being denied judgment and verdict, and whatever respite may come with the hands of death upon her. She has already been defeated; must she wait like a disgraced criminal as well?

Regina would welcome death, she realizes. Or maybe the fairy magic cursing through her veins is playing tricks on her, gnawing at her desperation, feeding itself with it. Whatever spell the Blue Fairy had cast upon her that night a fortnight ago, thus giving Snow her dishonorable victory, has effectively put a stopper to her magic, making a defenseless prisoner out of her, and driving her positively insane. She doesn’t understand the light magic of the fairies, but her instincts understand enough to know that it is unnatural to her, like unwanted hands and invisible claws, like weightless shackles that hold her still nonetheless.

At a younger age, when she’d been but a child with a heavy crown above her head and no idea of what to do with the grief and the anger clanking away inside her chest, Rumpelstiltskin had often spelled her magic away as means of training. As with every trick in Rumpelstiltskin’s book, it had come with a side of torment, but Regina can’t say it hadn’t been useful. With her senses lost and her hands powerless, she had learnt precision and weight when it came to her magic, had understood that it had always been there, at the back of her head, even before the imp came into her life and pointed his greedy fingers at it. She’d found her magical core through Rumpelstiltskin’s thievery, and she supposes there is much understanding of herself in the fact that she would rather feel the touch of the Dark One’s spell than that of the Blue Fairy’s.

Losing her magic to Rumpelstiltskin’s teachings had been like being separated completely from it, but the Blue Fairy’s conjuration is a beast of an entirely different nature. The Blue Fairy hasn’t kidnapped her magic, but has put a cork on it, so that Regina feels as a bottle about to burst with every second that passes. Her magic is _right there,_ where it has always been, but Regina’s attempts at making use of it only leave her drained and in pain, the strangest of places pulsing with unbearable heat. It hurts somewhere behind her eyeballs, at the back of her knees, deep against her breastbone, at the tip of her toes. It’s torture, plain and simple torture of the senses, and Regina thinks that had they taken an eye or a leg she wouldn’t have suffered more.

Magicless, she’s invariably cold, and always forced to control her tremors, lest her guards think her even more defenseless than she knows she is. She wonders, fleetingly, if her lips are a shade of sickly purple, and her face pale in that gaunt and unhealthy way she has seen it take on when she forgets to take care of herself. It hardly matters, not when she’s sure she must be losing her mind, when she finds herself thinking fondly of the Dark Curse and its alluring power, of the deep red puffs of magic on Rumpelstiltskin’s hands, which had always felt so warm. She wonders if she would feel them at all with the touch of the fairy’s magic moving under her skin like deadly poison, and the thought that she might not leaves her feeling vulnerable, open raw for her enemies to take their pickings and do away with her.

And yet, Snow White makes her wait, prolonging her torture surely out of misguided kindness, thinking that she’s doing her a favor by pondering the chances of allowing Regina to keep on living, if stripped of power and rule, of title and freedom. And oh, how she despises the child, so close to her yet again and so far apart at the same time, and her heart still beating away. In the name of that hatred, and only in the name of that hatred, can she survive to see more days come to an end inside her impoverished cell – for she will die, but she will do so only under the order of Snow’s wishes, so that her death haunts her for the rest of time, so that she’s never truly free of the monster they both created with careless hands and destruction, so that the Evil Queen lives forever in her mind and in her heart, as the ruined picture of the woman she once knew, the Regina she once loved. 

* * *

 

On the days that follow, Regina gives up all illusion of comfort, and takes to following the light as the sunrays invade her cell. Thus, sunshine finds her curled at the head of her bed, where the first signs of the early morning touch her face gently. The winter light isn’t particularly warming, but after the long hours of oppressive darkness, it never fails to make her sigh with the closest she can get to relief while crowded in her imprisonment. As the sun moves, so does she, and so she notices that the first change of guard occurs at midday, when the light is touching half the cot and the most hidden corner of the cell, and when Regina is sitting on the ground, legs stretched before her, back to the wall and eyes closed, feigning sleep if only so the guards speak freely around her. She has the vague hope that they will bring news of the going-ons of the outside world, but no useful rumor has crossed their lips yet. The second change of guard occurs at sunset, just as the first one occurs at sunshine, and by that time Regina is quietly and hopelessly clinging to the last moments of the day, and never managing to care much for anything other than the waning light, and the cold that follows.

Regina finds comfort in following her routine, steps and hours locking themselves in her head in a comprehensive manner and allowing her to know what to expect at each hour of the day. She knows which guard will be there at every hour of the day, and so she can mold herself to them as needed, knowing only to relax when one of the pair outside her cell happens to be the kind one. There’s little more relief than she can feel, given her circumstances, and yet she counts on what little she can scrap for the sake of her own well-being. She fears the fairy’s spell may drive her completely insane, and so she clings to whatever construct of a healthy mind she can make up for herself.

She wishes Snow would visit, whimpering about the crimes committed and her betrayal of the family that they never were. At the same time, she merely wishes for judgment to be passed and her execution to be given a date. Most of all, she wishes for impossible freedom, for another chance at getting her revenge, at reaching out with nimble hands for Snow White’s neck and squeezing the life out of her, even if her own is the price she must pay. Her wishes find no reprieve, however, no answer and no hope, and so the days pass, inexorably slow. 

* * *

 

On the day that marks the third fortnight of her imprisonment, Regina gets her period. It’s nothing but a small trickle blood, a too thin and watery attempt from her body to remain somewhat regular and healthy, and it makes Regina want to tear her own belly apart. She’s wearing a thick, sack-like grey _thing_ that they had forced on her upon her arrival at the castle, and too thin underclothes that don’t fit quite right, but she may as well be naked for all the embarrassment that grips her throat the moment she feels blood sliding down the inside of leg, a pang of light pain low on her belly following. Her limbs clam shut almost immediately, making it impossible for her to react as she thinks of the severe face of the chambermaid they send for her once a day, of those eyes of hers that Regina struggles with so as not to allow that woman to make her feel shame for her situation.

For long moments, all she’s capable of is staying very still, sitting down at the edge of the cot, a ray of sunshine hitting the back of her head, her knees trembling lightly under the palms of her hand, her fingers curling about the thick fabric there and squeezing painfully. A gurgling sound parts her lips, unwittingly making its way up from behind her breastbone and ending its painful climb in something too much like a childish whimper. It snaps her out of her trance enough for her to whirl around and find the hidden corner of the cell, where she sits on the ground, knees up against her chest and arms about her, pressing against her belly and lessening the pain slightly. She closes her eyes tightly, pressing them together as if that could somehow wake her up from a very long nightmare. It’s fruitless, and suddenly all she can think about is being twelve years old and hidden away inside her bedchambers, ashamed of her body, of her hunger and her pain, fearing that she was but an animal being held at bay. The memory is vividly painful, and her magic reacts unbidden to it, as if wanting to rid her of such thoughts, and pushes against the spell tying it up with such strength that Regina’s head begins to pound with the pressure until she feels sure her eyes are going to escape their sockets.

Her chest palpitates painfully under suddenly short and nervous breaths, her own natural magic curling with more precision than it has since she was brought here, prodding incessantly against the weaker spots of the fairy’s conjuration with little success and yet with hardened strength. Regina allows it to push forward, wills it to drive shame and pain away, to free her from the prison that is her body, so she can free herself from the prison that her enemies have trapped her into.

A bout of grinding pain is all she gets for her efforts, a sudden cramp hitting her and forcing a surprised gasp out of her. She hears a somewhat strangled _are you alright, Your Majesty?_ coming from the kind guard, but his meek little voice sounds entirely too far away, her senses crippled by her boxed magic and by the silly little pains of her female condition. It hits her that she’d thought her breasts all too heavy these past few days, and that she’d fleetingly considered it a consequence of the lack of corsetry she’s been forced into. Had she thought otherwise, she might have had the hindsight of informing the harsh chambermaid for cleansing pads beforehand, but she’d been so consumed by everything else that she’d completely forgotten about such a possibility.

She’s paying the price now, in shame and torturous memories, and soon enough, in the curious gaze of her most hated guard. He comes close to the iron bars, leaning by them nonchalantly and looking upon her with unabashed delight, all the while masterfully ignoring the careful warnings of the kind guard, who probably thinks he can save Regina the trouble of dealing with his rude companion. Kindness has never been a weapon that has done Regina any good, however, and so she settles her open eyes on the hated guard’s, defying him even at her weakest, with no other shield or armor than the fleeting construction of her own dignity.

“Look, Ruddy boy, a bitch in heat!”

Regina scowls, wonders briefly if the smell of her period is somehow strong enough to conquer that of closed quarters and lack of bathing, but soon realizes that the trickle of watery blood has died somewhere below her right ankle, and while nearly unnoticeable, it’s visible anyway. She hides her feet under her clothes as best as she can, and closes her eyes, willing the feeling of humiliation away. _Not in front of this man,_ she thinks, _not before this piece of scum that has no right to settle eyes upon you, not after a lifetime of wearing your pride for everyone to coward before._

“Wymar, you mustn’t–you _mustn’t_!” The kind one mutters, and Regina opens her eyes to watch _Wymar_ the hated drag him closer to the iron bars and into an awkwardly forced one-armed hug.

“Aw, c’mon Rud, you’ll never see such a pretty thing in your life, trust good old Wymar. And the queen here likes you, too!” Then, with a knowing wink that lands like a slap against Regina’s cheek, he says, “You should give the boy a ride, Your Majesty, maybe show him what a good woman can do and stop him from being such a little pussy already.”

“Wy–you–ugh,” the little guard mutters, ineffectively fighting his companion’s hold.

Regina ignores his antics, however, letting her eyes drift once again to the mocking beady gaze settled not on her own, but on what little skin of her neck is visible. The simplicity of Wymar’s lust is an advantage, one that Regina hates herself for using, and yet one that affords her an opportunity she won’t pass up. She may be on the waiting list for an imminent execution, but even behind these bars, humiliated and weak, she’s better than this man before her, and she’s going to make sure he sees himself buried before she does.

Carefully, in clunky movements that she struggles to make fluid and slow, she untangles herself from her curled up position, stretching her legs before her and opening up her crossed arms, dragging her fingers down her own neck and to her collarbones, languidly resting one hand against her ribs and under her right breast, smiling a slow and studied smile when Wymar’s eyes stray exactly to where she expected them to. Her change in demeanor causes an immediate change in his, and he lets the boy get away from his hold so he can lean fully against the iron bars, eyes big with understanding now. The boy says nothing, staring at the scene as if not quite sure of what’s happening, and Regina ignores him altogether, focusing instead on her charade, hating that there are tears threatening the edges of her eyes, hating herself for seeing no other trick that can play in her favor, and above all, hating the man before her for forcing her to play this particular game.

Regina knows this game, and she knows it well enough that it takes her no time to get to her feet, and to settle her heavy and frail limbs into a cat-like stance, into the sexual confidence of a temptress with more lust than sense. The seductress and sexual victim are roles so very easy to inhabit that Regina nearly bulks at the thought of playing them all over again, and of playing them for the amusement of such a simpleton. Debasement adds itself to her humiliation, but she doesn’t waver, not when she’s still impossibly aware of the blood between her legs, not when her body feels like nothing but a painful traitor, and not even when she knows that whatever action she takes against this man is futile when it comes to controlling or changing her destiny. Immediate revenge consumes her instead, and drives her forward and towards where Wymar in leaning against the iron bars, her fingers finding purchase around them, and right below where his own hands are grasping at them.

Throwing a fleeting look at the kind guard, dismissive in nature, her eyes find Wymar’s again as she leans forward, her face close enough to his that she can feel his foul breath against her cheek.

“The little dear will have to forgive me, but you see, I _do_ prefer a man when it comes to certain…” she lingers, bites her lower lip, overplays the temptress until she reads like the most willing of whores instead, and whispers, “… adult matters.”

Wymar’s thick lips spread into an easy smile, and his mocking little eyes twinkle, amused and clearly enamored with her performance. “And here little old me thought you didn’t like me.”

Regina bites her lip yet again, only a canine holding onto the dry flesh as she looks the man up and down, adding a touch of playful derision to the game, and shrugging as she says, “I suppose you will have to do.”

“Oh, I like them feisty ones,” he intones, and Regina has to make a physical effort to keep her stance and not cringe, much more so when the man reaches down and cups himself with bold fingers above his breeches, shaking his manly parts as if a preening peacock. “Can’t wait to get them tiny hands on this, can ya? Knew that coy act was fake; all the kingdom knows you’re a whore thirsty for necks and cocks.”

Regina sincerely hopes her smile isn’t as strained as it feels to her, and that the sudden bout of dizziness that bounces against her skull doesn’t give her away. Every fiber of her being is rebelling against the man before her, and her blood is pounding with a sudden urge for violence that she can hardly wait to exact. She wastes no more time in a game that she finds no pleasure in, and instead lets her hand crawl downward and through the iron bars, swiftly ignoring the other guard’s squeaky complaint as she slaps Wymar’s hands away from his own body, and settles her own there. He’s already half hard, and smiling triumphantly, as if breaking her resistance if by far the most satisfying act this war has awarded him. Regina wastes no time, worrying him with one hand enough to distract him, so that when her second hand finds purchase on the hilt of the dagger sheathed at his waist his breathing is already heavy and his eyes half-closed, so distracted by such a barely there touch and so convinced of Regina’s desire to please that he doesn’t expect her betrayal in the least.

As her smile turns into a smirk, she pulls the dagger up and out, the movement sudden and brisk, and her physical weakness forgotten in the short struggle that follows. Even with an awkward hold on the blade and the iron bars between them, Regina makes the dagger touch the man’s skin, the sharp edge catching on his collar and cutting a deep and thick wound low on his neck, and making him stumble backwards, gurgling screams parting his lips and hands against his own neck. Regina remains still, his blood now coating the blade and the hand that’s holding it, thick, warm and satisfying. Blood for blood, she figures, and perhaps mother hadn’t been wrong when she’d said that the blood between her legs gave her more power than it did shame.

“You bitch, you fucking b–”

Wymar stutters similar expletives for long minutes, and Regina simply looks on, smirk untouchable. After a while, she notices the little, kind guard approaching her slowly, eyes on the dagger that she’s still holding tightly. She has no use for it now, not unless she wishes to turn it towards herself and use it for an early death, but she’ll be dammed before she gives Snow White the satisfaction of an easy way out. With a chuckle, she lightens her grip and carelessly throws the dagger to the ground, right before the kind guard’s feet, and where Wymar, now sitting down and wheezing in pain, can’t reach it.

“Now, dear, do be a good boy and have that chambermaid of mine bring me some clean linens and water soon; all of you have been quick to forget, but I am still a queen, and I expect a respectful demeanor to be attended from here on out.” A pause, and then, derision pouring from every syllable as she points at Wymar, she states, “And take that thing out of my sight.” 

* * *

Awakened by anger, and hungry for resolution, Regina begins to feel like a caged animal once more. She wishes for a mirror, hoping to spy a spark somewhere in what she feels to be a hollowed out gaze, a sudden remembrance of just who she is and what she’s capable of, even behind a set of heavy iron bars. After all, much of her life has been spent in a prison, and just because her latest one happens to be quite literal, Regina refuses to be defeated by it. Not allowing her anger to dull, she paces the small space she’s been confined to, ignoring the coldness of the stones beneath her feet, as well as the prickling pain of the small cut on her sole that hasn’t quite healed yet. Quite the contrary, she relishes on the pain, on the biting feeling of anything other than the paralyzing numbness that had begun to conquer her the moment she’d been imprisoned.

Thus, her stupor conquered and her displeasure rising by the day, she fights her impatience in the best way she knows how to – simply, by making everyone around her wary of her mercurial temper. Meals thrown to the ground carelessly and torn blankets are more than enough to unsettle her guards and chambermaid, it seems, now that her little encounter with the disagreeable Wymar has made everyone remember just how easy manipulation and violence come to her. No hands remain steady in her presence, and no one dares come too close, lest they become her victim. Regina drinks in the small slice of power with gusto, grasping at whatever control she can find in this small world she’s been reduced to live in.

Newfound disposition, Regina fights the spell keeping her trapped as well, ignoring the pain to the best of her abilities and punching at the light fairy magic with every bit of strength she has. The enchantment makes her feel cottoned, her senses dulled and her mind distracted, and so she finds her focus in the pain of her struggle against it. Her own magic is strong enough to scare the fairies into powerful conjuring, and she has faith not only in that she can momentarily break the spell, but in the fact that her enemies can’t afford to cast such rich magic quickly and constantly. She figures, then, that a temporary shift of the spell may allow her to transport herself away, perhaps if not as far away as her own palace, then certainly far enough to escape her prison, and find her way to safety.

Her thoughts, however, are shifted away from focus when an announcement is made that she’s to be brought before the king and queen, the man in charge of making such a ludicrous proclamation before her nearly dropping the official document held between surely sweaty palms when Regina breathes out an effervescent peal of laughter at being presented with the newly acquired titles of Snow White and her prince. They’re no more than a traitor and a shepherd, and yet they’ve both been quick to claim titles that lawfully belong to her still. After all, if Snow wants her crown, she’s going to have to rip it away from her corpse. Otherwise, she’ll remain a banned princess and nothing more.

Shackled with heavy irons and escorted by six guards, two of them with their big hands clamped around her forearms, Regina is dragged carelessly around the halls of George’s Royal Castle. She knows the place well-enough to know when they’ve passed and left behind the throne room, and even while being forcefully yanked forward by the too fast-paced walk of the men around her, Regina can’t help but smirk. She wonders what it is that has stopped Snow from claiming the chair of royalty her falsely acquired title suggests, and hopes that it’s the anxiousness of inadequacy. Making allowance for rebellions and the self-righteous fighting of a well-known evil must have been a natural disposition for Snow, after all, but ruling a country after the blight of war is a whole new can of worms that Regina is sure the pretty, pretty princess can’t even begin to process. No amount of hope speeches and good intentions can make the hard decisions of a seat of power go away, and Regina ponders just how long Snow can survive by turning her mind away from that which displeases her. If her choice of one of the smallest chambers inside the castle to receive her is anything to go by, Regina bets that Snow may just rule her kingdom to ruination by sheer avoidance.

She’s led to what once was a council chamber, which George had repurposed as a small library of sorts, light wood furniture and deep green settees making for a cozy atmosphere that he’d used as means of making those he wished to manipulate into any of his ploys comfortable, so as to prod and nudge in the wanted direction with more ease, making his prey pliant with the pretense of soothing warmth. He’d taken Regina there once, not long after Snow had declared war on them, and had made a last attempt at a marriage proposal, using the room as aid and the oncoming conflict as excuse. Regina had laughed, all the while looking at the open balcony windows and at the sea expanding before them.

“Now, dear George, we can’t possibly afford the wedding I would deserve with such raging battle before us,” she’d answered, mirth curling her smile into a smirk, and warning rounding her voice on her next words, “Let us never speak of such ideas again.”

Figures Snow would choose this chamber among every other one in the castle, with its small spaces and warm hearth, and with the winds of winter filling up every crevice with the salty scent of the sea. If the choice of chambers is meant to calm Regina, however, it achieves the exact opposite, the contrast of her own lacking presentation with that of the richly furnished and beautiful surroundings making her immediately on edge. She’d accuse Snow of deliberately trying to humiliate her, but she knows better than to think her so manipulative and in such shallow a way.

Her escort of six doesn’t leave her side when she’s brought inside, and the two men holding her remain as well. Regina is mildly grateful, her shackled ankles threatening to bend and make her fall, and her legs feeling suddenly fragile, as if about to break. Fleetingly, she wonders what the raggedy and itchy piece of fabric she’s wearing would reveal were she to take it off, and every single answer she comes up with repulses her. She fights the feeling, however, makes herself as tall and dignified as possible, tells herself that it is not corsets and heels what make her queen, that she can command attention even when diminished. Ruefully, she thinks of her shoeless feet, and pushes the shame away by squaring her shoulders and pushing her chest forward, by bringing tension to her own back in that well-practiced mannerism that mother had made sure she mastered as early in her life as possible. Then, with steady eyes, she looks at Snow White.

The sight of her step-daughter nearly causes her to laugh, the image of her one so unexpected that Regina wonders if she’s not having a fever-induced dream, after all. Perhaps madness has conquered her in spite of her best efforts, and her delusional mind has come up with a picture of Snow White that she can openly ridicule. Before her, wearing a puffy, pastel green monstrosity of translucent yet bright organza, Snow White sits, her body perched at the edge of a tall, wooden chair, tension filling her every muscle. Her hair has been pinned up expertly into a heavy-looking bun, whatever illusion of naked skin the freeing of her neck may have achieved robbed of truth by the thick necklace dangling down and over the too-closed cleavage of the gown. Big earrings and a tiara finish the ensemble, and Regina has a fleeting memory of being dolled up for a wedding she had never agreed to, and of being forced to carry herself with confidence under the cumbersome dress that had been chosen for her. She’d nearly choked on the jewelry pressing against her windpipe back then, and Snow White looks about as comfortable as Regina remembers feeling that night.

“Won’t you look at that,” Regina intones, whatever lack of confidence had conquered her moments before being carried away by the cold breeze, and leaving behind an easy smile. “You _must_ congratulate whoever it was that managed to scrub the forest out of you, dear Snow.”

Murmurs break about the room, the few people that Regina has swiftly ignored quick to comment, even while Snow remains quiet. Not just quiet, Regina notices, but impassive, looking forward and pointedly refusing to bring her eyes to Regina’s own. She muses that the dress and the jewelry must be for these people’s benefit, and then wonders if Snow truly thinks she can fool anyone, when lies have always settled so sourly on her frame. After all, Regina has no doubt that if she wishes for her own wardrobe instead of the rags forced upon her, then Snow must be longing for the comfort of her bandit gear, and the freedom of her loose hair. Regina relishes the thought, thinking that it is Snow’s own damn fault that they’re meeting like this, rather than with a fireball and a bow in between them, the way it should have been.

Silence settles inside the room after brief moments of whispering, so that only the ticking of an old grandfather clock fills the air. Faraway, the waves of the sea crash softly against the rocks, and Regina takes a moment to listen to the sound, to soak herself up in the scent of the humid breeze crawling up the walls of the palace, suddenly all too aware of just how long she’s been holed up in between grey walls and iron bars, nothing but the smell of dust and her own humanity for company. The peaceful moment doesn’t last long, however, the quietness broken by the clanging noise of limbs clad in armor. Regina’s eyes follow the sound, and they’re quick to find the proud figure of her most hated guard, Wymar, now sporting a thick and dirty bandage about his neck, right where Regina cut him not a week ago.

He stands proud, not far away from Regina, his voice coming out wounded and scratchy when he tries his best to roar, “I demand retribution for–”

Regina cuts whatever inconsequential words may follow, however, a sneer accompanying her laughter, and her tone intentionally exasperated when she turns her attention back to Snow, and says, “Over _that_? After all these years you intend to cast your punishment over this–this _person?”_ She gestures vaguely towards the guard, as much as her own escorts allow, and throws a thundering look at Snow.

Snow remains unruffled, her eyes betraying nothing as they continue to deny Regina their regard. Regina spies her hands playing with the overflowing fabric of her skirt, however, tightening about it in a gesture familiar to Regina, and reminiscent of Snow’s unspoken anguish, of wanting to protest and dispose of responsibility and not knowing exactly how. Regina scoffs, unwittingly driving herself forward and towards Snow, her hands and feet heavy beneath her shackles, and the two men holding her halting her movement so that she’s barely leaning forward, and seemingly swaying on her own feet, as if drunk. The movement prompts a reaction, nonetheless, and she finds herself facing the stoically accusing clear eyes of Prince Charming, two steps enough to place himself in between her and Snow. Regina doesn’t fail to notice, however, how he’s also brought himself somewhat in between herself and Wymar, now another step closer to Regina after throwing another careless demand to what is seemingly an indifferent audience.

Tension crackles among them, palpable, and Regina’s magic sings with it, pulsating against her hand even when it fails to find release. It’s more comforting than it is painful, and it ignites anger within Regina, along with scorn and a sudden, nearly lunatic taste of absurdity and amusement. She smirks, briefly, throwing the gesture back at Wymar, teasing him for his uselessness with quiet precision, happy to provoke him with such ease, and then forces her guards to allow her to stumble one unsteady step forward, urging the prince to reach for the hilt of his sword in one swift and inadvertent move. So much fear over a little, powerless woman stripped of her title, and Regina wants to laugh.

Magic burns against her fingertips, insistent, adamant in finding a way out, and Regina closes her fists as if to contain it, fighting a losing battle against the spell binding her and refusing to back down. Prince Charming must sense something, his own hand tightening about the hilt of his sword and his chest pushing forward, as if readying himself for an attack. He looks straight into Regina’s eyes, bestowing upon her the look that Snow has seen fit to deny her, making Regina wonder just how much of his open hostility towards her might be turned into violence. She wonders, briefly, if she may yet tempt him into ending her right where she stands, even as her instincts suggest that Prince Charming’s hand is not the one that will finish her.

“Tell your guard dog to stand down, Snow White,” she commands, her seething tone angry, offended, and even disgusted before Snow’s show of disregard. If anything, the both of them should be above this foolishness, their history granting them the luxury of brutal and unbridled honesty.

“The king won’t have your nonsense, woman!” Wymar exclaims somewhere beside her, his tone breaking in the middle, and his proudly conceived statement of loyalty dwindling into a thin and inarticulate mumble.

Regina regales him with one more smirk thrown carelessly over her shoulder, unwittingly needling his spirit in ways that Charming’s more solid character won’t allow. Regina realizes she wants to cause a reaction, _any_ reaction, for if Snow refuses her the most basic of owed rights with neglectful contempt, she will turn everything around her into chaos until Snow is left with no other choice but to look.

Rolling her eyes back towards the prince, she scoffs, “Those rich clothes don’t make this man a king, you fools; no more than these rags make me less of a queen. I shall be judged only as such,” she orders flippantly, her lips curling upwards in satisfied pride when she spies both Snow and her prince flinching. “More so,” she continues, gesturing vaguely at where Wymar stands, “I won’t be denounced over peasant matters such as these. If anything, you should hang this ill-bred idiot for even daring to set eyes upon me.”

Her words linger in the silence, arrogant and aggravating, a challenge posed to the quorum that would see her humiliated over trifle matters and before the distorted image of the enemy that Snow White has never been, this strange figure posed above her and preened for a parade. Regina listens to Prince Charming’s heavy breathing, a whoosh of air that covers up the soft and faraway sound of the waves, but that refuses to give into brutality. He won’t touch her, not without reason or obvious threat, so Regina turns sharp eyes towards a surer bet, Wymar’s beady gaze meeting hers with such outraged and uncontainable fury that Regina can do nothing but provoke further, a superior tilt to her mouth enough to make him react.

Wymar launches himself forward in a too quick movement that only Regina sees coming, for it was her who was hoping for it in the first place, covering the distance separating him from her before anyone else has time to do anything about it. An insult parts his mouth, something so very enraged that is nigh unintelligible, and which loses all meaning when further abuse comes in the shape of a bare-knuckled hand against the side of Regina’s face. The blow echoes against the walls of the chamber and within Regina’s skull, so that she’s left unaware of her surroundings but for the feeling of being let go, her escort reacting to Wymar’s attack by freeing her arms all too suddenly. She stumbles sideways and to the floor, her shackles clanking against the marble but failing to hide the cracking of her bones when her head crashes against the hard surface. It leaves her breathless and dizzy, her limbs too brittle to help her steady herself or do anything else than lay there and try to catch her breath while fighting the daze away. She hears sounds, distant yet suddenly entirely too close, and as she groans her way out of her stupor, she realizes that it is the familiar noise of clashing swords.

Regina opens eyes that she hadn’t realized she’d closed in the first place only when a sudden wave of nausea threatens to make her sick, and the sight that greets her is that of Wymar’s contorted face, his mouth parted with the wheezing sounds of his dying breaths, blood pooling around a sword wound on his side and dripping down to the floor, close to where Regina herself is laying. She smiles, confounded, and rebels against the sudden urge to dip her fingers inside his wound and feel the blood pumping away. She snaps her eyes away from the sight, and searches instead for the culprit, her smile widening with delight when she finds Prince Charming’s bloodied weapon, his chest raising up and down with quick and jagged breaths and his hand still wrapped tightly about the hilt of his sword. His eyes, clear despite signs of unwitting impetuousness, are fastened to Wymar’s body, as if studying him as death finishes claiming his worthless life. How noble this Prince Charming is, with his eyes full of self-righteous anger and his willingness to walk Regina to her execution, and yet with innate principles so deeply seethed that he would defend her before a man that dares lay hands upon her. Regina laughs, fleeting and soft, the sound catching on her still unrecovered breathing, thinking that of course Snow White managed to find the one genuinely virtuous man left in the realm and claim him for herself with pure and light magic.

The lingering sound of her laughter makes Charming snap back into reality, a blink of his eyes making him move his gaze from the already dead Wymar and to Regina’s prone figure. He stumbles forward a step, and Regina wonders if he’s physically stopping himself from helping her stand. The thought widens Regina’s smile, and she looks Charming up and down slowly, appraisingly, with intent.

“Don’t you look just striking killing in my name, Charming,” she murmurs, humming softly, provocatively. “Such a shame you chose the wrong queen when you’re hiding such violence under those pretty eyes of yours.”

Her remark goes unnoticed by the crowd gathered inside the room, most everyone shying away from the gruesome sight of the dead guard, as well as being mildly shielded from it by Regina’s escort of six, all of them surrounding both her and the by now dead body with swords drawn out towards the small assembly. The prince hears it well enough, his cringing shoulders and the way he looks at the fresh blood coating his weapon proof enough. Even better, Snow does as well, and she finally snaps, her tense frame taking on a completely different kind of tautness, that of a wild-tempered creature, confined by her own chosen binds.

“Enough!” she bellows, something like desperation crawling up her throat as she stands up, her shoulders shaking under the heavy embellishments of her dress and her hands pulling at the fabric of her skirt, bunching it up and driving it in different directions, as if ready to tear it apart.

Snow’s movements are fast and jerky, and she stumbles on her way away from the tall chair, her steps unsure and accompanied by the sound of ripping fabric. Snow pays no mind to her torn up gown, her eyes dancing about instead, nervous and unfocused. She looks at the crowd first, then at the weapons out in the open and ready to be used were she to give such an order, and finally at the body resting on the floor, a small pool of blood at its side and limbs askew, morbidly uncomfortable in the way they tumbled down. Her gaze rests there minutely, her lips parted in silent disbelief. Then, her eyes snap to Charming’s briefly before they finally dare find Regina’s, big, open, vulnerable, and humid with unshed tears threatening at their corners.

“Enough,” Snow says again, her whisper silencing whatever words Regina had been about to shape, whichever scorn her discourse was about to deliver. “Enough–enough!” Snow repeats, the sob that escapes her then covered behind the wrist she brings up to her mouth.

Regina says nothing, her voice gone at the sight of the frilly lace covering the skin of Snow’s wrist, at the almost tangible grief written inside unshed tears. She wishes for those tears to fall, feeling vicious in her anger, and yet she says nothing. Snow remains quiet as well, her demeanor impossibly exhausted as she looks into Regina’s eyes, as if she can’t even fathom the idea of talking to her, as if she may just turn to ash if she even tries. She looks defeated, and Regina hates her for thinking that she has the right to feel such a thing when it is her that is laying down on the floor, next to worthless man, in cheap clothing and on limbs so brittle that she fears they may break if she tries to stand by herself.

“Dear Sno–”

“Enough, I said!” Snow snaps, something like fury clouding her gaze when she inadvertently lowers her lids at half mast, when she tightens her fist about the fabric of her skirt.

Regina smiles at the reaction, and yet her satisfaction is short-lived, for Snow’s anger disappears with as much ease as it came about, and Snow turns around before Regina can find it in herself to say something else. Snow _runs_ from her then, runs like the coward she has dressed herself as and towards the open doors of the balcony until she’s reached the railing, where she seemingly stops to breathe long and harsh, her hand pulling at her constricting necklace. Charming follows with near immediacy, a hasty order of _take her back, take her back_ thrown to Regina’s escort before he makes his way towards Snow, and away from their gruesome little spectacle.

Regina is brought to her feet then, strong hands and arms pulling her up as if she were a ragdoll, and then dragging her away from the circus that had made her ring master minutes before. Back to her cell, she muses, like any good fair freak that has already provided the necessary entertainment. 

* * *

 

The sound of the rain outside wakes her up, but Regina chooses not to open her eyes just yet, holding onto the fantasy darkness provides for a while longer. It smells almost nice, the distinct scent of the light storm filtering through the small window, fresh and clean, and with her eyes closed tightly together, Regina can pretend that she’s somewhere else, waking up to welcoming surroundings. The feeling won’t last long, she knows, so she cherishes it briefly and for as long as her body allows her to. It’s not long before she can no longer fool herself, however, and so she opens up her eyes as a quiet groan leaves her parted lips, her limbs protesting when she pushes up to sit down on the cot and draws away the itchy blanket about her shoulders.

Regina isn’t sure of how long it’s been since she was brought back, after that disgusting farce of a meeting she’d been dragged to, but she supposes she may have slept the longest she has since the beginning of her imprisonment. After all, by the time her escorts had reached her cell, she’d been little better than dead weight in their unforgiving grip, her ankles refusing to cooperate and her whole body aching after the fall she’d taken. She hadn’t passed out, but she’d curled weakly on the cot and had been claimed by a dreamless and deep sleep. Now, it’s hard to place the events timewise, and she looks up at the small and high window in some silly attempt to gather an idea of just how long she’s been asleep. There must be grey clouds outside, for all she sees is a faint light that may belong to the late morning or the early afternoon both, and that lacks warmth altogether. She sighs, disgruntled, and brings her hand up and to the back of her neck, feeling the stiffness there, and the cold sweat making her skin sticky. She presses soft fingers there, and glides them down to where her neck meets her collarbone, but the effort is futile, since most her body aches, her joints and limbs feeling as if they may never quite recover themselves from this weakness.

Belatedly, and with a sense of cringing disgust, she lets her fingers travel to the side of her face, where what must surely be a darkened bruise palpitates painfully. Her skin feels hot to the touch all around her eye and on her cheek, where Wymar’s strike had done its damage. She hisses, touching the broken skin as if looking for the pain, loathing that he managed to put his hands on her once more before being killed.

“It probably feels worse than it looks, Your Majesty, but please do stop prodding at it. You will only make it worse.”

The distinctly rigid tone hits Regina like a bucket of ice-cold water, and even as she blinks her eyes in an effort to focus them on the tall figure of Duchess Adela, she doesn’t quite believe what she’s seeing. There is no denying that it is her Law Advisor standing by the kind guard and the haughty-looking chambermaid she’s been attended by during her stay in the prison, though. The moment reality registers, Regina stands up abruptly, her steps surprisingly solid as she walks the small distance towards the iron bars. She wraps both hands about the cold metal, and tells herself that it is not because she needs something to properly hold herself up.

“Duchess!” she exclaims, incapable of hiding her gladness at seeing a familiar face, and one she trusts, at that. “What news have you? What has become of the kingdom and the palace? How is George faring? What does that bratty step-child of mine intend to do–”

“One question at a time, Your Majesty, if you please,” the Duchess interrupts, unaffected by the severe gaze Regina regales her with at being so rudely stopped. “Let us see to your face, first.”

Regina harrumphs, displeased, and yet allows the duchess her brief moment of power, if only because she knows that they’re both capable of the same brand of stubbornness. As a matter of fact, the duchess pays no attention to what Regina knows is the sourly looking pout on her face, and instead turns to the chambermaid next to her, and motions towards the small basin filled with water that she’s carrying with her.

“I will tend to the prisoner,” the woman states, denying the duchess.

The duchess huffs with impatience, authority shaping her every syllable as she says, “The queen will be tended to by a friendly hand for once, and you will do well to address me properly. Have manners been forgotten in this brave new world altogether?” And this she directs at Regina, a complicit and amused tilt to her head.

Properly chastised, and with fear probably settled on her shoulders after having Adela’s infamously imperturbable character aimed at her, the chambermaid acquiesces, bowing her head and answering, “Yes, Your Grace, as you wish.”

Regina steps back from the iron bars then, the small distance back to the cot suddenly feeling as long as many miles. She might be a bit dizzy, the surprise of seeing the duchess now wearing away and leaving behind the pervading exhaustion that her limbs are now adamantly reminding her of. Nonetheless, she does her best at sitting primly at the head of the cot, thankful once again for the freshness filtering through the window and driving the stuffy atmosphere away, if only a little.

She waits, watching as the duchess fetches the basin and the washcloths the chambermaid had been carrying with her, and the gracious movements of her hands as she motions the guard to open up the cell. She looks every bit the picture Regina has of her in her mind, one of her favored grey, long-sleeved and high-collared gowns covering every piece of skin but her smooth hands and face, her refined features bereft of make-up but for a slight blush about pale and sharp cheeks, and nothing but a pair of small, white gold hoops adorning her ears. After so long without seeing a familiar face, the sight of her brings such relief that Regina is ashamed to notice the telltale sign of tears prickling at the corners of her eyes.

Regina sniffs quietly, hopefully hiding the sound behind the rustle of Adela’s dress as she moves about the now open cell. By the time the duchess is sitting by her, prim and proper and as foreign as an exotic animal inside the dank prison, the iron bars have been closed again, and to Regina’s surprise, both the chambermaid and the guard have retired to the next room, giving them both a whisper of privacy that Regina hasn’t had in way too long a time. She barely questions how Adela managed such a feat, figuring that she must have all but bullied Snow into a private audience, and is content to simply enjoy the gesture. She breathes out, hard, and allows herself a brief moment to hunch her shoulders and lower her lids.

Duchess Adela allows for the respite, saying nothing as she wets a clean washcloth in even cleaner water and presses it to the side of Regina’s face. Her touch is gentle and the water cool, and Regina doesn’t protest when her thin fingers tilt her face up and to the side, so that she can more easily clean under and around her right eye. Rather, she takes a moment to compose herself, while giving herself permission to take comfort in the cleanliness of the duchess and her touch. She smells nice, like cotton and powder and a hint of lemon, and the scent is overpowering enough that she nearly forgets to ask for anything other than this.

The spell is brief, however, and once Regina doesn’t feel as if she may pass out from sheer fatigue anymore, she pries her eyes open and reaches up to briefly press her fingers to Duchess Adela’s covered wrist, silently asking her to stop. The duchess drops her hand and the washcloth down and on her lap, not without a disapproving gaze passing over her eyes.

“Well?” Regina questions, motioning vaguely about her with one single hand, as if that gesture could possibly encompass all she needs and wants to know.

The duchess understands her meaning well enough, Regina knows, and yet chooses to deflect for the time being, saying, “Well, Your Majesty, you look like death warmed up.” Then, with a soft touch of her knuckles to Regina’s temple and then her cheeks, “And you feel feverish. Have you been eating at all?”

Regina doesn’t answer, choosing not to think of the hard bread and strong ale that her guards keep bringing her, and which she hasn’t even contemplated eating. She’s hardly been able to stomach little else than shallow sips of bland soups for weeks, any case.

“I figured as much,” the duchess says, prompted by her silence, the brisk chastisement of her tone fueling Regina’s anger as if she’d lit a match in the middle of a too dry forest.

“Save your scolding for another time, Adela,” she snaps, slapping the hand that still rests by her cheek away. “You’re my Law Advisor, not my mother, and you will do well to remember that there is a limit to my patience.”

“One would dare think _none at all_ doesn’t particularly rate as a limit, Your Majesty.”

The duchess’ sharpness throws her back momentarily. It seems she has forgotten just how cutting the woman can be, and how little she cares for Regina’s status or imposing nature when it is just the two of them in a room, and when decorum is made unnecessary. The nature of their relationship has always been both deeply satisfying and desperately frustrating for that very same reason, and Regina supposes that hoping for the former today had been silly of her.

Regina doesn’t have time enough to gather herself and answer before the duchess beats her to the punch, however, murmuring a soft and huffy, “Oh, here.”

Regina knits her brows together, failing to understand, and so stays quiet as the duchess reaches back and to a small bag that she’s been carrying with her all this time, and after a brief search, pulls out a red apple of all things, which she promptly offers Regina.

“It’s from your tree, Your Majesty,” she explains, shaking her hand before Regina until she’s taken the fruit and brought it to her lap. “The crop this year was beautiful, and we had the children pick them up. The cook used our last reserves of sugar for pies and fritters; wasteful, if your ask me, but the old countess insisted we needed a bit of a break, and people seemed happy enough, if briefly,” the duchess tells her, something harsh rounding what is otherwise a beautiful tale of nostalgia. “I can’t imagine that the war offered such a respite to you, or your camp, Your Majesty.”

“No, no it did not.”

Yet, for all that the war was neither the comforting respite that Regina had made it to be during the first few weeks of marching and battling, nor the rupture of conventions and prejudices that it had hinted at, she would change her actual predicament for years of war camps and bloodshed in a single instant. It’s a futile thought, and Regina does away with it and instead endeavors to have the duchess speak of the world outside her cell.

“Talk to me, Adela,” she demands after a brief pause, her voice far too raspy and far too soft, but hopefully straightforward enough to stop the duchess from evading her questions.

“Yes, Your Majesty, but I will do so as I clean that shallow cut on your cheek, if you will.”

Regina reaches up, touching soft fingers about her cheek until they meet the roughened skin of a shallow cut, and what she guesses must be a bit of caked blood over it. Duchess Adela huffs at her, and slaps her hand away before she’s pressing the wet washcloth yet again against her skin, this time directly over the cut.

“The hand that did this must have been wearing a ring, to cause such damage,” the duchess muses. “Hearsay is that it was the prince that stopped him, is it true?”

“Yes, yes it was. So very chivalrous, wouldn’t you agree, duchess? He’ll be more than happy to see me executed, but he won’t have me be hurt under the hands of a man. The simpleton probably thinks himself just and fair over the matter, too.”

“A polite shepherd, who would have guessed? He cuts a properly dashing figure, too, but then he’s wearing James’ face, and the former prince’s idiocy never affected his good looks, either,” the duchess says, now scraping with a little force and a lot more care at the cut on Regina’s cheek, the clean water now tainted in brownish red from the dried blood.

Adela’s brow furrows in concentration, her fingers cold against Regina’s chin as she moves her face this way and that, inspecting her work.

“Is it well known?” Adela questions. “That the prince is not the same one he once was, I mean?”

Regina shrugs briefly, and answers, “There are rumors, as you know, but they haven’t been given much credit. George is the only one who has the whole truth, and I hardly think he’ll risk the discredit of proclaiming it to the world. The last thing he needs are hidden twins and dark deals to add to his predicament.” Then, without a pause for breath, “What news have you of him?”

The duchess sits backs, making a show of primly arranging her skirt and straightening her posture, licking her lips in that absentminded way of hers that Regina has learned to associate with her trying to make a point during a council meeting. Her hands leave Regina completely, and she discards the washcloth, leaving it submerged in the now dirty water of the basin. Regina waits her out, her own hands unwittingly nervous and only made steady by the apple cradled within them.

The duchess sighs before she speaks, a sigh of what may be tiredness but also defeat, and then finally says, “He’s been incarcerated in the dungeons, and is awaiting trial, though the talk is that he will be exiled, if pardoned.”

Regina scoffs, mutters a quiet, “Of course he will be,” which Adela chooses to ignore.

“He was secluded inside his own chambers for a while,” she continues, “but he managed to stage some form of rebellion within the castle with the help of some of his faithful guards. I’m not clear on the details.” Adela waves a hand in the air, dismissive. “Whatever the case, it failed, and his army seems to have lost the fighting spirit.”

“Has it, now? Has it truly?”

“The war has seemingly stolen all resolve away from everyone, and with both you and George in such predicaments as you are, there are no leaders left to gather a disassembled army,” the duchess explains, cold in her demeanor and precise in her words. “Midas bent the knee quickly enough, and he’s already been pardoned and brought into Snow White’s fold by means of Princess Abigail.”

Regina stands up as she listens to Adela’s words, and to the bleak picture they are painting before her. It’s not as if she hadn’t imagined quite the situation that she’s describing, but to have it confirmed brings none of the relief she’d thought would come from the knowledge. How silly of her, to have harbored secret hopes of a different resolution.

Nonetheless, sitting still as the duchess weaves unshakable truths for her is maddening, and so she chooses to pace slowly before her, no more than three steps this way and then back. Her foot still stings from the cut that isn’t healing quite as quickly as it should, and her face feels painfully swollen where Wymar struck her, never mind the duchess’ care. Her limbs are no better, her arms falling heavily by her sides and overcome with the kind of debility that feels impossible to shake away.

“And my people?” She wonders, turning sharply towards the duchess with her arms now crossed over her chest. “I have no knowledge of executions having been arranged, but then, well…” her voice lingers, her hands motioning vaguely at her surroundings.

“No such thing, Your Majesty.”

“Why, dear Snow White,” Regina ridicules, scorn surely written in her features. “She’ll put executioners out of business, yet.”

The duchess doesn’t laugh, but she does smile briefly, the gesture slippery. “The princess has had the armies divided and scattered, and has sent most men away to asses and recover villages and settlements. She’s using her loyal men as guard dogs to those who aren’t. It’s…” the duchess lingers, and begrudgingly admits, “not entirely a terrible strategy.” Then, “I suppose some of her education must have kept, after all.”

“I should hope so; I did pay good gold for it,” Regina snaps, one hand flying to the bridge of her nose, her fingers pinching there and fighting a headache that is already pulsating behind her eyes. “I should have allowed Leopold to make her a depthless twit.”

“Some of your men did escape,” Adela tells her then. “That Black Guard of yours, the one you like – tall, bald, seems like he might have half a brain?”

Regina chuckles, even now capable of being amused at Adela’s outspoken disdain for soldiers. She’d never quite understood Regina’s delight and fondness for her army, having always considered its existence as a mere necessity. She’d despaired, often and with artless bluntness, whenever Regina and Duke Nicholas would spend hours upon hours amongst her army’s generals, occupied with maps and battle strategy.

“Claude, dear,” Regina clarifies.

“Yes, that one,” the duchess confirms. “It seems he used the brief time of confusion before you were brought to prison to gather whoever he could, and rode back to the palace to regroup. He arrived maybe a month ago, bringing about a hundred men with him, and some others – the countess’ girls, and a few noble youngsters ready to oppose their parents’ pledge to Snow White.”

“There _are_ promising odds, after all, then,” Regina exclaims, foregoing the use of the word _hope_ , turning her back on it, refusing it the power to ignite impossibilities within her. “There may be a way to–”

“Your Majesty, don’t, please don’t speak such words,” Adela pleads, the genuine beseeching nature of her tone and her outstretched hands surprising Regina. Never before has Adela shown such desperation in her disposition, and yet her voice breaks with the timbre of begging appeals when she requests, “Come, come sit by me, Your Majesty, please.”

Regina denies her, her whole body joining her thoughts as she shakes her head and brings her arms up, crossing them over her chest again, defensive. “Do not test me, Adela, not today.”

“What would you do should I choose to do so, Your Majesty? You look weak enough that even my brittle and old bones may prove challenging against you, and the fairies have stolen your magic away, have they not?”

“If you doubt for a second that I would find a way to end you with my bare hands, Adela, perhaps you should keep going down that road you’re walking,” Regina retorts, her body angling forward unwittingly with the strength of her speech, every bit of her being choosing to neglect how truly frail she feels.

Adela laughs at that, weak, small and a little gurgled, and Regina realizes that the duchess’ eyes are shiny with unshed tears. She’s surprised enough by the unusual sight that she ignores Adela’s quietly scolding, “Such confrontation, even at the end.”

Brusquely, Regina requests once again, and through gritted teeth, “Talk to me, Duchess.”

“A date has been set for your execution, Your Majesty,” brief, factual and aloof, the statement fails at feeling casual and heedless, nonetheless. “In three days’ time, at dawn.”

The declaration punches her gut, and yet fails to collect even a smidgeon of fear. It stuns her though, briefly, stopping her thoughts and her breath and the beating of her heart for what feels like a lifetime. Confounded, Regina looks down at her own hands. Given a fortnight, maybe a little more, she might have been able to push the fairies’ enchantment away long enough to escape her prison; given a month, she might have rallied however few people were still with her back into a last fight, if only to claim more blood before her end; given a year, she may have seen her kingdom back under her rule. But then, _three days’ time._

The duchess is saying something, Regina realizes, as she comes to her senses suddenly. A kind of terror twists through her, not because she fears death but because she doesn’t, because she will welcome it with a smile and with a cry of victory, because her only regret will be that Snow will go on living as she rots beneath the ground.

“ – proclamation was made official this morning, Your Majesty,” the duchess is explaining. “She seemed quite broken up about the idea.”

 _She, Snow White, seemed quite broken up about the idea._ The words circle inside her head, pulsate against her ears, kindling fury in their way.

“Of course she would be,” Regina snaps, all her senses coming back to her at once, and her bottled up magic pushing up her spine and roaring at the back of her neck, desperate for release that won’t come.

Regina’s eyes fixate sharply on the grey stone walls surrounding her as she wills the sudden ill-feeling away, and fails miserably. She turns on her own heel, and begins pacing again, never mind the cold floor underneath her naked, shoeless feet, nor the dizzying sensation settling itself about her brow.

With scorn in her tone and an ugly scowl marring her features, she can’t help but rant out loud, “Dear Snow White, so very sad at the prospect of executing her enemy. _Broken up about it_ , is she now? The idiot girl will dare cry when I’m gone, and everyone will think her so merciful, so _good –_ such a beautiful heart on her, that she will shed tears for the monster that wanted her dead.” Regina chuckles, drily, the sound tired and weak. “She’ll dance on my grave yet, and she’ll be praised for it.”

“And that those should be your thoughts when facing impending death, Your Majesty.”

Regina’s eyes travel back to the duchess, the exhaustion present in her every word only making her statement all the more resigned. There are tears in the duchess’ cheeks, watery trails barely visible over reddish cheeks that die at the corners of her attractive mouth, where the wrinkles of age are more prominent, making her features a little softer. They’re quiet tears, because the duchess doesn’t know how to be anything but reserved, but not for that are they less startling.

Even to this day, Regina remembers quite vividly her first meeting with Duchess Adela, back when she’d been queen for barely a few months. In those days, Leopold had still been proud to present her to the court, the beautifully peculiar creature that he’d bought for himself and his daughter, and he’d introduced her with such pomp that Regina had been hard-pressed not to flinch. Duchess Adela, younger than today and yet impossibly adult before Regina’s eyes, in her light grey gown and with her mouth pinched with indifference, had examined her briefly and without subtlety.

“Ah yes, the queen,” she’d stated after her appraisal, dismissive and judgmental and haughty.

She’d made Regina feel small in the same way mother made her feel small, and for many years, Regina had despised her very presence. Nonetheless, the duchess is no fool, and her pride has always run hand in hand with wisdom, and has never stopped her from changing her opinion or appraisal, and so she’d come to respect Regina enough that Regina had chosen to pay that respect back. In spite of it all, that the duchess should shed tears over her demise is almost enough to jolt Regina into an uneasy sense of jittering panic.

“That’s enough of that, Duchess. Do gather yourself.”

Stepping back towards the cot, Regina sits down heavily, her lightheadedness unbaiting. She ignores everything but the woman before her, and with a jerky and sudden move, she leans forward to clean her tears with the bottom of her sleeve. She’s purposefully rough, and hopes that the cheap fabric scratches against the duchess’ smooth skin. It is not the time for tears, but the time for pride and dignity, and if the duchess of all people breaks before her then surely Regina has no hope regarding the matter.

Adela slaps her hands away after a moment, recovered from her brief spell even if the telltale signs of tears remain on her face, like etchings on a statue. Her hands don’t leave Regina, but rather search out her jaw and her chin, settling the back of soft fingers there, as if to regard her better. And this woman, who looked upon her as if she were nothing but the foolish caprice of an even more foolish king once upon a time, now gazes into her eyes with terrifying reverence.

“You will walk to your death with your head held high and a smirk upon your lips, Your Majesty,” she says, curling her lips into a bitter smile, ignoring the thought that they both know well-enough that Regina’s face will be covered for the execution, and that no smirk will make a difference.

Regina smiles, if only to fight the onslaught of feeling pushing against her ribcage, and reaches up with her one free hand, the one not holding a red apple, to twine it with one of the duchess’ own – a strange caress between the two of them that feels well-earned nonetheless.

“And you shall do me one last service, Duchess,” she commands, her tone as authoritative as she can make it. “I want her to come speak to me. Tell her so, and push her into this last desire.”

“Your Majesty, I don’t think–”

“Do as I tell you, Adela. I want Snow White to tell me of my destiny herself; I want her to look me in the eye and understand that she’s paying for her crown with blood – _my_ blood; I want her to carry this with her for as long as she remains living, so that my death won’t be forgotten. Not by her, _never_ by her.” 

* * *

 

Snow doesn’t come to see her, yet she allows father to be brought before her, his shoulders hunched and his eyes tired, hiding inside their depths all the fear that Regina hasn’t felt herself during the days leading to her demise. Something cracks inside her at the sight, and for the first time since she left the palace all those months ago to fight her war, her heart constricts inside her chest, painful in its wake, as if it had forgotten true feeling and now it must hurt to bring it back. For the first time, Regina allows the tears pooling at the corners of her eyes to fall down her cheeks, past her lips, all the way down until they plop, wet and uncomfortable, against the papery skin of father’s hands.

Father cries with her, sorrowful in his gentleness and broken in his knowledge of her destiny. He claims that Snow may yet forgive her, and yet he must know that Regina won’t accept whatever possible deal may allow her to live if it’s to be under the princess’ thumb. He does try to convince her towards yielding her pride, though, so sweetly and carefully that Regina can barely resist him. She does, however, and shushes his pleas so she can soak up the comfort of his presence instead, relish in the smooth touch of his hands against hers, even if they must hold them together through the iron bars of a cell.

Father will be taken care of, for instructions have been left regarding the matter on Adela’s hands. He shall be allowed to keep the manor where Regina grew up, and as many servants as he requires; Regina’s lady’s maid and the head cook at least, if he’ll have no one else, as well as whoever remains of her Black Guard. Regina knows Snow won’t deny him such kindness, and if anything, will be ready to make sure he’s well-taken care of, and happy. Even the idea of such a gift makes something dark itch under Regina’s skin, the certainty of Snow’s gentle benevolence a reminder of that which has made the world call Regina evil and crown Snow in her stead. Snow won’t be cruel to Regina’s father the way Regina’s was to Snow’s, but then father had always been affectionate towards Snow, where Leopold had been nothing but a jailor for Regina.

Fury lays to rest before father’s presence, however, and instead grief breaks her apart with the ease of crashing waves. Regina holds onto father’s hands for dear life, and bends until it’s her forehead that’s resting against them, a penitent asking for a blessing that she doesn’t deserve. She’s so very tired, though, and if anything, she must ask for this absolution.

“ _Cielo, cariño, princesa… mi princesa…”_

_Father’s words soothe the open wounds that Regina’s firm disposition and pride have kept stitched together, but they fail to heal, and instead leave her broken open and vulnerable. By the time father is forced away from her, his hand lingering between hers for as long as he’s allowed, Regina feels out of sorts and completely unprepared for the nothingness that the future has to offer her._

Time passes in a strange manner then, Regina’s fever taking ahold of her and leaving her with nightmares that have her reaching desperately for the memories of father’s beautiful words, for the smooth sound of his rumbling, lowered voice, for the whispers that they’d once shared in the dark confines of her childhood bedroom, eating chocolate the way naughty children do, and hidden away from mother and her pressures and impossible desires. It’d been love hidden under wraps, scared of the world outside, ashamed of itself, and the only kind Regina has ever known – with Daniel, with Maleficent, always secrecy and fear, trapped by the designs of Regina’s destiny. Regina barks out a laugh at such a thought, laying down on her cot and feeling cold and hot at the same time, her magic pulsing beneath her skin like coiled wires, searching for a way out and only causing pain.

“Not destiny,” Regina mutters, her lips barely moving, “not destiny. Mother, Rumpel – _not_ destiny.”

She holds onto the thought, barely, hoping keep the burning anger that it brings with it. After all, what else is there to feel when mother will outlive her, a crown above her own head and pride intact? What a disappointment she must be, a disgraced queen dressed in rags and waiting for execution, such a failure that not even her greatest enemy deems her worthy of one last word of contempt. She wonders if mother will regret ever having spent her energies on her, if she will forever bemoan every thought she ever spared her, every effort ever wasted on her upbringing. Mother, with her calloused hands and her cold, cold eyes, who clawed her way out of misery and claimed that which didn’t belong to her with masterful dignity and a glint her eye. If only she’d been more like her, _but then._ But then to think of being nothing like father. She can’t bear it, and therein lies her weakness, the fragility that mother surely spied on her early on, and hoped to discourage with well-placed and harsh lessons. She will die a mistake, an obstacle at best, a failure in mother’s otherwise flawless ascension to power.

Mother’s absence weighs heavily on her, more than she’d thought possible. She’d done her best to banish her away from her life, her thoughts and her heart, after all, and while she’d hardly succeeded in the past, she expects rest from the idea of her on the eve of her death. She finds herself longing for her firmness instead, denying herself the notion that she may be wishing for a last tender touch instead. It’s foolish and reckless, she knows, this desire for sentiment at the end of it all, and yet she can’t quite cleanse herself of it, finding herself resenting mother for her absence instead. After all, she has no doubt that she must have heard of her situation, if nothing else through Rumpelstiltskin’s murmurs and plans.

Then again, the imp hasn’t shown his face either. Regina was hardly expecting him to, and yet she’d harbored the silly idea that her death might be a step-back in his plans, if nothing else. Another ill-advised notion, surely, to think that Rumpelstiltskin doesn’t have a back-up plan for whatever it is that he wishes to obtain, or even that she’s the main plan at all. For all she knows, she’s been little else than a project on cruelty, an occasionally fun experiment in a long life of schemes and senseless plots. For all she knows, there’s no purpose to her whatsoever, if Rumpelstiltskin is so quick to dismiss and sacrifice her, not even a last distasteful giggle of delight to part ways with her.

It is in such turmoil that she finds herself on her last evening of life, the waning light outside beginning to darken the corners of her cell. She looks about herself with eyes that won’t rest, and stares at the tray of uneaten lunch pushed against one of the walls, a big, fat rat gnawing at the hard bread with pointy teeth, and thankfully keeping itself busy enough to stay away from Regina herself. How delightfully humiliating, she thinks, to live her last hours accompanied by rodents and bugs, surrounded by the pervasive foul smell of humidity and enclosure, wasting away under her rags. Her mouth is pasty, and she tries licking her lips and doing away with the nastiness of it, realizing that the lingering taste at the back of her throat must be that of the fairies’ magic and its fight against her own. It tastes just like that clear _aguardiente_ father had been fond of back when she’d been younger, and which she’d once secretly pilfered to share with Daniel. It had tasted strong and nasty, and it had burned as it traveled down her throat all the way down to her stomach, and the sight of her gagging after the first sip had made Daniel laugh like never before.

Blindly, Regina searches for the familiar touch of the engagement ring dangling between her breasts, her hand finding nothing but the coarse fabric of her dress. She hadn’t taken it with her to war, and she knows fairly well that the token of her love for Daniel is safely absconded in her bedchambers at the palace, inside a pretty little box lined in purple satin that father had gifted her on her fifteenth birthday. She’d wanted the ring to be safe while she battled her enemies, and she only finds herself regretting the action now, when its cold metal may have provided a sigh of comfort. She wonders, briefly, if there’s any chance that they may bury it with her. Perhaps, despite everything she’s been and everything the world accuses her of being, Snow will allow father to care for her remains, and so she may be find her end dressed in a beautiful gown, with Daniel’s ring put to rest with her, so that their doomed love may find its peace with Regina’s demise.

Nothing but madness lies inside her thoughts, and perhaps what she’d believed to be insanity lurking at the edges of her mind has already caught up to her completely, after all. However the case, not lunacy nor pain would make her miss the person entering the hall before her cell, much less so when it comes accompanied with an ever too formal proclamation of titles.

“Her Majesty, the Queen Snow White!”

Regina can’t help herself, and she snorts even before she lifts her gaze to settle on the lone figure of Snow White, clad in riding clothes and furs, her hair wild and making an effort to escape what must have been a tight braid at the beginning of the day, and her cheeks flushed rouge, as if she’d just been out riding and had only then decided to run up the stairs to Regina’s tower. It must be that, Regina muses, an ill-advised last minute decision to see the woman that she must have been urged to keep away from.

Regina laughs, brief and rough, the sound woolen and tired. “I see it didn’t take long for you to lay false claim to my crown, _Snow White_ ,” she sneers, lacing her voice with venom to surpass her exhaustion, twisting her lips into an ugly grimace to make her distaste palpably overt.

Snow says nothing, keeping silent for a long and tense moment, every small movement betraying how she’s steadying herself, as if in need of a particular kind of strength to face this conversation. Regina narrows her eyes in contemplation, watching as the princess licks her lips and slows her ragged breathing down, the tactic seeming to fail altogether when she can’t get her fingers to stop twitching where they’re holding onto the thick furs of her vest. To anyone else, she might have been the picture of calmness, much more settled in her own body as she is in riding clothes than in the garish gown Regina had last seen her, but then, Regina knows her far too well, and the years haven’t changed Snow’s telltales so much that Regina can’t both recognize and exploit them.

Regina wants to laugh, something dark and perhaps hurtful, but she’s not quite ready to provoke Snow’s anger still, so she uses the gifted time to accommodate herself much in the same manner the princess is doing. She sits back as comfortably as humanly possible on her small cot, crossing her ankles and throwing her shoulders back, her head held high and her hand resting over her lap and arranging the fabric there, making sure to be the queen that she’s still is, never mind the cell or the rags she’s wearing. Her lips, twisted in an unimpressed grimace, close the picture of nonchalance, and she wonders if she can sell this position at all, or if Snow can look past it and see the cracks much in the same manner Regina can with her.

Snow takes one step forward, fake bravado filling her chest and pushing her chin up and her eyes forward. “Regina,” she says, and her name feels funny coming from Snow’s parted lips, as if a prayer lost to deaf gods, so full of longing that Regina has to blink the sudden emotion away. “Regina,” Snow repeats, more strength inside her voice this time, “won’t you please consider my next words carefully?”

“So polite,” Regina replies instantly, derision dripping from the elongated words. Gesturing vaguely at herself, she says, “I think it’s fair to say that I’m hardly in a position to deny you any favors, Snow, so why don’t you spare us the pretense and say whatever it is you need to say?”

One more step forward, and Snow is wrapping nimble fingers about the iron bars of Regina’s cell, dismissing the worried interlude from one of the guards. She looks at Regina with eyes that fail at hardness, and speaks with a voice that is painted with edges of pleading. “We were once a family, were we not?”

Regina breathes out harshly, the sound rattling inside her own head, the pounding of it not enough to deafen her to Snow’s words, which keep coming without minding her obvious discomfort, barreling without rhyme or reason, as if capable of erasing years of war with good intentions.

“We might still be, Regina,” Snow is saying. “Won’t you leave this prison and live by my side? Even if the crown is officially on my head you could still rule next to me, you could–I could certainly use the help, and Regina, Regina I know there’s still good in you, I know somewhere inside you lives the girl that saved me all those years ago, and that–that, well surely it would take the court some time to accept you, but I know with time and my blessing they would–”

“You dare!” Regina exclaims suddenly, cutting Snow’s rant with words that are a barking order. She stumbles as she stands up from the cot, forgetting her tiredness and every pain in her body when anger explodes within her, rash and unstoppable. “You would come here and dare spew such nonsense, even now!” She sneers, straightening up and looking at Snow with disgust etched on her features. “Must you be this stupid on the eve of my death?”

“You think hope is stupid; of course you do.” And there’s such disappointment in her voice, as if she’d been sure to move Regina’s more deeply rooted instincts and desires with a few shallow words and a plea for surrender.

Regina laughs, bitter and loud this time, wanting to punch Snow’s disenchanted expression out of her face, wanting to finally steal away that overflowing and naïve optimist out of her. She shouldn’t be surprised, that even after persecution and war, after a clash of wills and years of cruelty, Snow would still refuse to see the truth of who they are and who they’ve been to each other, and would dare call upon the tender feeling of family. Even now, with the truth of their lives and the hatred tied within them right before her eyes, she refuses to see. To see that Regina hates her, to see that death is their only choice, to see that Regina would claim her heart if she only had the chance.

Snow doesn’t stand down from her position, never mind Regina’s antagonist demeanor. Stubborn to the last moment, and Regina would hate her all the more for it if only it hadn’t made their fight more meaningful. After all, if she’s to end her life in defeat, the last she can ask for is a worthy opponent.

Snow brings her arms about herself, crossing them before her chest only to move them back down a second after, as if realizing the vulnerability of her defensiveness, and choosing to face Regina with all the bravery she possesses instead. She sways on her feet, undecided, but doesn’t take a step forwards nor backwards. Then, she searches Regina’s eyes.

“I’m trying to offer you a chance, Regina.”

“A chance?”

“Yes!” Snow exclaims, thinking perhaps that she’s finally gotten through to Regina. “A chance at redemption, at peace and love and a happy ending.”

Scorn finds its way to Regina’s voice, disdain twisting her guts as she stares into Snow’s hopeful and shiny gaze. “A chance for you to be the hero that saves the big, bad Evil Queen? _Please,_ the last thing I’ll do for your ego is bow down to such hopelessly shortsighted attempts at a truce.”

“I have nothing but genuine in–”

Regina barrels through Snow’s excuses with a raspy peal of laughter, holding onto the coarse fabric of her skirt for lack of something better to do with her hands, and quickly enounces, “Have we not played such a game already, Snow? Have I not bended to your every wish for years on end that you dare ask me for such humiliation again and have the gall to call it a gift? I’ll welcome death before I agree to accept anything from you.”

There is no gasp coming from Snow, nor any other sign to show distress, and yet Regina knows her to be anxious, very much in the same way she used to be as a child whenever she was denied her desires. Not that such moments were many, but certainly enough that Regina can read the frustration settled between Snow’s eyes quite clearly. She must have thought Regina would reconsider her position, if out of blind hope or sheer dullness of mind Regina can’t tell, as if turning a blind eye to the years past and offering a hand after everything would change anything.

Snow takes a step back, as if reconsidering her stance. She straightens up, and now that her cheeks have lost their earlier flush and her eyes only betray a smidgeon of conflict, she looks very much the part she’s playing, far more regal in simple riding clothes than in any gown her subjects would rather see her in. Regina wonders, briefly, if they will love her anyway, if they will shower affection upon her even if she denies them the pleasure of a traditional ruling queen, clad in fine fabrics of all the right colors and walking on the arm of a handsome king, smiling kindly and using her smarts only behind closed doors. They just might, Regina thinks, the world always ready to accept Snow’s eccentricities while rejecting her own, the court more than ready to accept a queen in beige riding clothes when one in black coats and armor had been found so disagreeable. The thought stings, bitter, and so Regina finds herself standing her own ground, lifting her chin up and keeping her shoulders back, forgetting every ache in favor of this final battle.

After some time, it is Snow who finally breaks the lull between them, stating her next words with an air of harsh judgment. “You reject me out of pride, so much so that you are willing to die for it.”

“I’d rather die standing than live on my knees.”

“So that’s it,” Snow accuses, surprisingly angry all of a sudden, Regina’s stubborn denial shattering whatever fantastical lie she has been telling herself while coming up here to see her, whatever future she had concocted where the both them found a way to live together and in harmony, Regina forever grateful for the chances given. “I should have listened to my council, then; there truly is no hope left for you.”

At that, Regina snorts, the sound undignified yet inevitable. “Your _council_?” she mocks. “Let me guess – dwarves, werewolves and fairies. Ah, and let’s not forget your farm boy prince, of course.”

“They are good people.”

Twisting her hands away from her dress, and moving them about with sudden confidence, Regina can’t help but smirk as she speaks. “They are fools, unfit to rule themselves let alone two newly forged kingdoms after a war. If anything, it’s a shame I won’t be here to see you fail and to see all those little followers of yours lose faith in those insipid speeches of yours.”

“My speeches have given me victory!” Snow exclaims, such pride in her puffed up chest and her knowing smile that Regina can’t help but reach forward, her hand poised as if ready to will her magic. Her magic remains tampered with, however, and so the gesture makes her feel empty and weak.

“Treachery has given you victory, Snow,” she replies, a sneer painting the curve of her lips. “And hope won’t feed your people.”

“You are impossible!” Snow exclaims, giving way to childish frustration and curling her hands into fists, her arrogant demeanor getting lost in a genuine demonstration of desperation. Her face contorts into an ugly mask, and this time she does take a step backwards, as if she were in need of protection, never mind the iron bars between them, or the spell holding Regina’s magic prisoner.

Regina parts her lips to deliver the final blow, disarmingly happy that even in her situation, power seems to be on her side, her own disregard for her own life and for any offers that could possibly be made giving her the upper hand before Snow’s innate wish to make everything around her reconcile with her own naïve view of the world. However, Regina is given no chance to speak, Snow moving forward once again, frantic in her every gesture, and interrupting her thoughts as well as her speech.

“Regina, I–I can’t… Don’t ask of me to–to–”

“To _what_? To kill me? I’m hardly asking, dear.”

“But you refuse me otherwise!” Snow exclaims, passion in every syllable and in the hands that she once again wraps around the iron bars, in her desperately searching yet pointed look, in the twist of her pretty mouth and her newly flushed cheeks.

Such a beautiful sight, and perhaps it is such desperation that her followers had wanted to fend off when they’d followed her to war, for it paints tragedy in features meant only for promise and belief. In Snow’s anguish Regina sees weakness, yet perhaps the world has seen something precious to protect, and she wonders whether she would have been loved by that very same world had she worn her grief in her eyes, instead of hiding it behind anger and pride. Forget the world, then, if fragility is the price for its love.

Yet love is what she sees when she takes a moment to look deep into Snow’s eyes, those dark, warm pools that had regarded her with such admiration in their past, before they’d become enemies separated by a cell door, when they’d almost been something like sisters. There is nearly no change in what Snow’s eyes expose when they meet Regina’s, for they are filled with a terrible kind of love. Unwanted love, selfish love, and yet layered with truths perhaps as devastating as the lies that had fed it. Snow loves her, and for a brief second, Regina believes it to be genuine, despite the twisted threads of hate twined within it. Regina rejects it, adamantly so, and yet when she reaches up and out with a hand that has to fight its trembling away, she does so with fingers that curl in familiar softness, and that seek the warm apple of Snow’s cheek with a pang of long lost affection. Snow flinches backwards, looking at Regina’s hand, now hanging in the air and between the bars, as if a stranger, an unexpected intruder. A beat of silence passes, noisy and jagged breathing pounding between them and tension in their every limb. Another beat, like a clock ticking between them, and it all deflates when Snow sighs nearly inaudibly, closing her eyes in tired defeat and allowing herself to lean forwards and into Regina’s touch. Regina’s knuckles rest against Snow’s warm skin briefly, the touch odd and yet familiar, her fingers blind when they uncurl and lay gently against Snow’s face, the caress a moment of their past, lie or truth Regina doesn’t care to understand, but brief deliverance in a conflict more than a decade long.

“Dear Snow,” she breathes out, and her words tremble with uncertainty.

It is a lapse of judgment on Regina’s part, a moment in time that fleetingly puts a stop to the storm brewing within her chest, to the anger and the grief, to the desire for revenge and personal gain, to the need for retribution and blood. As if a thick fog were cottoning her feelings, a tendril of something long lost threads its way from the pit of her stomach and all the way to her heart, where it pounds with the notion of impossibility. She remembers, with quiet slowness and a bizarre density about her senses, how she’d once cradled Snow between her arms with sincere gentleness, how she’d dried her tears over a mother lost with tender care, how she’d welcomed her to her table and into her chambers, how they’d laid together on the floor, between pillows and blankets, like children – like sisters.

They had been children, both of them, and with that thought in mind the tenderness flies away in a instant, her sudden remembrance only the beginning of a thread that holds no more good memories once Regina begins pulling from it. They had been children, indeed, and when they’d been woken up that morning by King Leopold, Snow had remained as such while Regina had been forced to fulfill her role of queen and wife, the one that she’d been deemed both too proud and too foreign to truly deserve, the one that she had been told was an honor, when there had never been such in Leopold’s bed, nor in his consort seat. The thought bites her with bitterness, and the moment ends as instantaneously as it started, Regina’s lips curling into an ugly grimace as her hand loses its tenderness and curls about Snow’s chin instead, her fingers tight against her cheeks and around her mouth. Snow gasps this time, opening up eyes that are shiny with unshed tears and red with tiredness, like bruises in features that only now Regina notices are far too pale. Snow’s own hand shoots up to wrap around Regina’s wrist, fighting her unforgiving grip.

The vulnerability of the moment feels like an open wound against Regina’s chest, and it makes her all the more vicious for it. She pouts childishly, and touches her words with venom when she mocks, “I’m sorry, dear Snow, but do you miss mommy dearest? Is that it?”

Relentless in her pursuit, Snow replies, “You’re the only family I have left, Regina.”

“Oh child, you’re either blind or a complete fool,” Regina spits, tightening her fingers about Snow’s face when Snow tries to pry them open by pulling from her wrist, even as she once again refuses help from the prison guard with a swift and silent order coming from her free hand. “You honestly believe the nonsensical words you’re spouting, don’t you?”

“There is no denying the truth, Regina,” Snow declares, a surge of power coming from her voice and raising it above the whispering desperation she’s been exhibiting up until now. “We were a family, you and me and fat–”

“Not by any choice of mine, and you will do well to remember that.” Regina laughs, the sound like sandpaper against the rocks, her fingers burning with unreleased magic. “You wanted a mommy, and the king wanted a wife, and I wanted none of it.”

“But you’ll die clutching the crown that came with it all, won’t you?”

“A mere trifle for what I sacrificed.”

Snow sighs, obviously exhausted, and before she says her next words, she lets go of Regina’s wrist, as if freeing her of the pressure might prompt her to perform an equal favor. “Regina,” Snow begins, forcing a soft smile. “Regina, I will always be sorry for the fate that befell Daniel, but that doesn’t mean–”

“Don’t, don’t you dare speak his name,” Regina snaps, tightening her grip further and pushing her nails onto Snow’s skin, broken and short as they are, hoping that they’ll sting. Unwittingly, her free hand looks for the ring that isn’t there, and fruitlessly curls itself about the fabric around her collarbones instead. “Don’t pretend to understand, to _know,_ what I–what we–”

Regina stops herself, and as suddenly as she’d trapped Snow in her grip she lets her go now, bringing her hand back to her chest to join the other one and even taking a step back. It burns to think of Daniel when he’s lost to the ether of her memories and when he hasn’t been avenged. His death remains unpunished, and his blood will forever coat the crown that they’re fighting for. Daniel’s life and Regina’s innocence had been the toll paid for the lowly prize of being queen, a useless title that only her own endeavors had turned into something meaningful. And now Snow will rip her efforts away with the same ease with which she’d ripped Daniel from her.

“Is there nothing I can do, Regina?” Snow pleads, her eyes sunken and hurt, impossibly bewildered before the twists of Regina’s temperament. Her plea is honest, if silly, a mere prayer sent to a broken goddess than can’t possibly be bothered to consider mercy as a choice.

Regina paints a cruel smile onto her lips, willing it to be menacing even when she feels as if she may just faint from exhaustion, the simmering magic under her skin rolling painfully within her and making her hands burn up, a pyre with no space to breathe.

“You could surrender your heart to me,” Regina states, “if you wish to please me at all.”

Snow scoffs, offended and probably drained by Regina’s inflexibility, by her own ineptness to make Regina care for her pleas. Even now, and despite the hardships of her years of persecution, she’s that very same child Regina grew up with that can’t bear the simple notion of being denied her hopes and desires. Always the pretty princess that thinks she knows better, Regina thinks, always the spoiled brat who believes her way to be the right one, and so forever the naïve demon shackling Regina with good intentions and the privilege to force them upon her. Regina will be glad to be rid of her, even if she must die to accomplish such a feat.

“Let us speak the truth, Snow White,” Regina drawls, slowly regaining her regal posture with the notion of death already settled in her spirit. She has nothing to lose, and so she can stand proud even if she’s the one behind iron bars. “We find ourselves at an impasse, do we not, dear?”

Snow harrumphs, brings her hands back up so she can wrap them about the iron bars once again, as if needing something to hold onto. “I’m giving you a choice, a _chance,_ Regina.”

“I will not speak in circles with you. As it is, I don’t have long to live, and I don’t think I want to waste my time with your foolish pleas.”

“What do you want from me, then? What could you possibly expect fr–”

“I want you look me in the eye and send me to my death, Snow White,” Regina states with conviction, drawing near to Snow one more time, so they can indeed be eye to eye as she so desires. “Go ahead at take my crown; wear it as I did, with blood dripping from its edges. And remember the price you paid to make yourself queen, remember, when you’re being told that you’re the hero of this land, that it was my life that you sacrificed, that it was my heart that you destroyed with your itty bitty hands when all I ever did to earn such a fate was save your life.”

“You’re mad, Regina, you’ve gone mad!”

Regina laughs, a big and fake cackle to confirm Snow’s accusation. “Perhaps, dear Snow; but remember that my madness is in your hands, that if there was ever an Evil Queen then you’re the reason why.” She laughs again, a deranged giggle of sorts that leaves her breathless, as if she’d been running rather than imprisoned for weeks on end.

Snow steps back at that, jerky if not clumsy, her breathing harsh when she turns her back on Regina, hugging her own frame as if protecting herself from truths that she knows to be genuine.

“Don’t turn your back on me!” Regina bellows. “Don’t you dare turn your back on me!”

As tough ordered by magic, Snow turns back again, swiveling on her heels with the grace of a drunken lout, and keeping her arms around herself, one pressed firmly against her stomach and the other clutching at her shoulder, her nails digging in. She’s crying, tears trailing down reddened cheeks and making her look ugly, unnatural even.

“Queen Regina, you have been sentenced for the crimes of murder, treason and treachery, and you shall be executed at last light on the thirtieth day of the year’s winter, drawn to the place of execution and there to be pierced by arrows until you are dead, by the Queen’s will, and may the Lord have mercy upon your soul.”

“Good Snow, I almost believe there is something like resolve in your trembling lip and your ugly sobbing.”

Snow says nothing and does nothing, impervious to Regina’s mocking words and cavalier stance, nothing but quiet tears to offer to the silence now settled between them. Time ticks away however, and Snow doesn’t leave, staring at Regina and ignoring the guard’s worried words by complete impassiveness. A fitting end for them, Regina supposes, even as her own body defeats her and she’s pushed to find her cot and sit down, her primness and composure a saving grace that she can maintain when all she wishes is to lie down and sleep, rest quietly before rest becomes eternal, and curl into herself so she can mourn a lifetime of wasted choices. Snow’s stillness offers her no reprieve, no comfort nor repose when all Regina can do is keep their stares locked together, refusing to let go.

What else could Snow possibly want from her? Repentance, a plea for mercy, a change of heart? She must know it won’t be coming, no amount of her own determination enough to quench Regina’s opposing spirit. Yet Snow remains, still and quiet and stubborn, dismissing a change of guard and her own prince, who appears to beg for her presence at the dinner table while pointedly refusing to look Regina’s way. She does whisper something in his ear, quiet and impossible to decipher but surprising enough to make Charming breathe with disapproval, which Snow quenches with eyes that stray from Regina’s and find his, and a hard kiss to his lips that Regina can’t help but groan at.

“What sick sort of torture is this, then?” she complains plaintively, receiving no answer for her troubles but for the prince’s hard eyes on her, accusing and uncomprehending, as if the spell that seems to have taken Snow over is her fault.

He disappears, though, not before leaving some plaintive instructions to the guards to skewer her on the spot where she to be planning some evil trick, but respecting Snow’s wishes enough to walk away. What a thought, a husband with respect for his wife.

Snow remains stoic in her resolve, but it is not long before their silent battle of wills is interrupted once again, this time by two maids dressed in pale blue and carrying covered plates with them. Behind them, two soldiers bring with them a table and two chairs, spiking Regina’s curiosity enough to drive her gaze away from Snow. Either way, Snow isn’t looking at her anymore, but she’s ordering Regina’s cell open despite the befuddled protests of the night guard, the oldest of them all who had once been Leopold’s personal choice for security. He looks at Regina much in the same manner the prince had moments before, as if there is some ploy at play that she’s somehow responsible for. Well, Regina will at least die with the certainty that she has instilled fear in every soul, if they believe her so capable of plots and schemes even while weakened and behind bars.

Stating her curiosity with a pointed look, Snow dismisses her with something close to a smile and hands that are busy waiving soldiers and maids both inside her cell, and directing them to settle the table before her, and the trays above it.

“You have no magic, and you wouldn’t stand a chance before the guards or even my own hand, Regina,” Snow explains, neglecting to realize that her weakened state is in fact a consequence of Snow’s own orders, which have kept her magic trapped, her meals scarce, and her conditions demeaning.

Nonetheless, Regina finds some humor in her voice when she says, “Careful, dear, I might still be quick enough to gauge your eyes out before your guards manage to stop me.”

“I have no doubt,” Snow deadpans, amused in spite of the solemnity that had clouded her for long moments only a second ago, and mindless of the tears yet clinging to the corners of her eyes.

Nevertheless, when one of the maids offers Snow a handkerchief, she takes it with a grateful word for the girl and cleans her own face of the tear tracks, blowing her nose as gracefully as possible. By the time she’s done, a table has been set before Regina, and while maids and soldiers remain outside the cell, the door stays open, and Snow right under the threshold. Momentarily, Regina has a vision of a time long gone, of a last meal shared between step-mother and step-daughter before one had sent the other to a walk in the company of the one that should have been an executioner, but had turned out to be a merciful pup instead. She remembers Snow as she had once been, beautiful in the way angels are meant to be, young and careless, and yet somehow already having broken the seal of her own love for Regina, and seeing her for the first time as a threat.

“Regina, I do love you,” Snow had muttered that day, after pressing a touch that hadn’t managed to quite be a kiss to Regina’s cheek.

Snow had nearly broken her resolve that day, the lingering feelings of a love Regina might have felt once pulsing under her skin and wanting so badly to conquer her anger and her grief. Had they managed to do so Regina might have walked a different path altogether, but they hadn’t. She hadn’t chosen peace and mercy, instead claiming blood for herself in the name of her own pain, and so it is that she finds herself back where she started, with a table set before her and Snow White under a door’s frame, not quite with her but not quite gone, love shining in sad eyes and burning Regina’s insides with such passion that it bends itself into hatred.

If Snow had gone out the door in the past, effectively beginning a war between them, this time she walks inside instead, marking its end. Nonetheless, there’s a table set between them, and the smell of warm food wafting from ornately covered plates. Regina rests her hand softly, almost unwittingly, against her own stomach, watching Snow taking a seat before her as if they were back at the palace, in the days where Regina had bought the court’s approval by showering Snow with affection, and when sitting down for a quiet meal together had been a regular occurrence. Snow pays no mind to Regina’s turmoil, her own still shining within her eyes, and instead uncovers fine plates of spicy rice with steamed, fresh vegetables, crusty and thick white bread, sliced cheese and shiny green grapes. There’s a pitcher of what looks like rich wine as well, which Snow pours herself into two heavily ornamented goblets. There is no meat, nor fish, yet considering the strife of war, it is most certainly a meal fit for a queen.

“Regina, would you please?” Snow asks, her tone betraying her unspoken command by being too soft, nearly pleading. She motions towards the empty chair in front of where she’s sitting herself, and lets the silence linger, putting the decision to be made on Regina’s hands.

Regina eyes her surroundings warily, yet with a clinical eye. One soldier remains inside the cell now, standing tall and stiff at Snow’s back, and Regina holds the vague notion of lunging at his sword and making a play for Snow’s heart. It would be foolish, and it would get her killed, considering that even if she manages to surprise the soldier into a mistake, Snow herself is by far a stronger fighter now that Regina’s magic is trapped and that her body is so weak. A maneuver of any kind would be suicide, and she plays with the idea of robbing Snow of a properly cold and distant execution, of forcing her hand into a bloody end in a wintry and moldy cell, her last gesture of good will lost to the madness of a woman hell-bent on her death. The thought is enough to make Regina feel hysterical, however, so much so that when she looks at the table set before her, the only sign of civilization and the kind of life she’s led that she’s seen since she left her palace to fight the war, all she can do is give in.

Standing up from the cot, Regina takes the offered chair instead, ignoring the soldier’s wary look and the way he puts his hand to the hilt of his sword, and being careful to sit properly and slowly, even as her stomach rumbles when the smell of saffron first touches her senses. All the fresh food she’s had for ages is the single apple Adela brought her as a gift, and even that feels like a dream of a different lifetime. Perhaps one where she hadn’t resigned herself to her own death quite yet, one where she would have coated the walls of this cell with her own blood before even considering the idea of sitting down for a meal with Snow willingly.

Regina has half a mind to go for the wine, hoping for the release of a drunken stupor, but her stomach recoils at the idea. On second thought, she waits until Snow fills her own fork with food and brings it to her mouth, and then does the same herself. It’s not the best meal she’s ever had, the rice too buttery and the use of spice far too conservative for her own taste, but it hardly matters. It’s a gesture of peace they don’t deserve, a wistful gift of sorts that Regina readily accepts, buying into the lie of it all if only for this one moment. She could still backtrack and take Snow’s offer, she muses, her eating slow and mindful, the meal falling a little too heavily on her underfed stomach. She could take Snow’s hand and choose to live, choose quiet and uncomfortable dinners, choose Snow’s constant and relentless hopeful desire to make her into something that she’s never been, choose walking the hallways of this castle proudly, hated and disrespected, while being regarded as the capricious result of the princess’ boundless benevolence and compassion, choose a slow and withering death, a life devoid of magic and purpose.

The thought makes her sick.

Regina pushes the plate back and away from her after only a few bites, the smell of food suddenly unpleasant. She does go for the wine, after all, taking a healthy swig and letting the strong coppery taste stick to her tongue. When she puts the goblet down, the touch of silver against wood loud with the strength of Regina’s movement, an air of finality rings against the damp stone walls.

“Enough, Snow White,” she states. “Enough.”

Gently, with exhaustion evident in every corner of her frame and every lilt to her voice, Snow agrees, “Enough.” 

* * *

 

 _Enough_ has never been a word that has shaken Snow’s resistance away and, unsurprisingly, this time is no different. Morning comes, but no one drags Regina away to her promised execution, instead prolonging her stay in confinement for another four days. She demands to know the reason behind the delay, her voice trembling with madness when she receives no answer, and when she’s forced to go back to a steady watch over her guards to keep up with the time of day and not lose her marbles altogether. She is allowed no visits either, despite her requests and despite clearly hearing Adela’s voice from a close distance uttering similar demands. Not even a quiet and desperate plea for father receives an answer, and so she simply blankets herself in the thought of him instead, wishing for his soothing voice and the papery touch of his familiar hands, longing for an excuse to allow brimming tears to fall down her cheeks. If father were with her, crying wouldn’t feel like such weakness; but without his presence and with mother’s echoing voice torturing her from within her own head, she can’t bear to break down.

The time of reckoning does come, eventually, at first light on the fifth day after Snow’s last visit, and it does so with no shortage of humiliation. Her face covered and her hands tied behind her back with heavy shackles, Regina is manhandled out of the prison and to the front courtyard of the castle, where the scent of the sea is so strong that it teases at her with a sense of nonexistent comfort even through the coarse fabric of the bag covering her face. She’s weaker than she believed herself to be, forcing the soldiers carrying her into making the effort quite literal, as her still naked feet drag behind her, her sole stinging where she hurt herself still, and dust crawling up her legs.

She’s pulled up and then down, and even if she can’t see, she knows she’s now on the execution platform, the sound of the crowd around her, while surprisingly subdued, clueing her to the fact easily enough. She feels dizzy by the time they unlock her shackles only to pin her to the execution pole, her shoulders pulled too tightly back, and forcing her chest forward in order to breathe. The bag is yanked away from her face quite suddenly, and Regina squints her eyes against the morning light, particularly shiny even though it is the middle of winter, and the cold sips into her bones through the flimsy material covering her. The crowd does begin to murmur then, peasants and royalty alike surely excited to catch even a small glimpse of the Evil Queen’s dead body, their own morbidity justified under the guise of justice owed. Regina doesn’t pay them any mind, and instead directs her gaze at the podium, where Snow White sits next to her prince, in much the same fashion that George had sat all these years past, ruling over the distasteful affair with sullen determination. She can’t quite make out Snow’s expression from her own disgraced position, and with what may as well be one of her very last breaths, she wishes for guilt and grief to be etched inside her eyes, and to never find purchase anywhere else, to forever cloud an otherwise proud and kind gaze. _You killed me, Snow White,_ Regina thinks; for hadn’t she, in every way possible? She’d taken her prisoner the day she had first set eyes upon her, when Regina’s kindness had granted her Snow’s admiration and, iron bars and cells or not, Regina had remained so up until this very moment, when the life that Snow had snatched away from her with her tiny, privileged hands will finally be laid down before her, nothing but Regina’s corpse and a kingdom aflame to show for Snow’s crimes against her. And Snow will be acclaimed for it, while Regina dies a figure of nightmares, an Evil Queen of dark heart and cruel inclinations, the girl she’d once been turned to dust between Snow’s nimble fingers.

Regina’s thoughts are cut short by her impending fate, and before she can even think about what is about to happen, the bag is being pulled over her head yet again. She swallows a gasp, forgets to even think about the speech Snow just gave, or about the flicker of golden, scaly skin she’d caught on the corner of her eye. The bastard would have the gall to show up at her execution, of course, even if he’d refused her even a hint of acknowledgment during her imprisonment, but she refuses to allow her last thought to be the cursed named of Rumpelstiltskin.

Regina closes her eyes, denying herself the flickering of the light filtering through the worn away fabric covering her sight. As she does so, she leans back, stretching her limbs to fight the pull of her shackles, and leaning the back of her head against the wooden pole, grounding herself in the physical reality about her, holding herself to it as she feels her breathing become suddenly ragged. For a moment, it’s all she can hear, her nervous, loud breaths trapped within the bag, warm puffs of air coming from her parted lips, humid and uncomfortable against her dry skin. She realizes, shatteringly, that she’s scared. She wants to laugh, and she does, but there’s barely a sound coming, the wheezing tone vibrating against her as if enclosed, and sending a shiver down her body. She finds herself trembling, shaking so hard that her knees feel weak, and she’s suddenly grateful for the support behind her back, forcing her chest forward and her head high, pushing her to remain standing and to receive death with a whisper of pride. But she’s scared, so very scared and with such sharpness and clarity that she has to fight the urge to cry out for mercy, to claim that she’ll take Snow’s hand and her offer of mercy after all. She denies herself the pleasure, the weakness of it, and instead presses her lips together tightly, bites down on the plumpness of the lower one and drifts away. She thinks of mother, who would want her to choose death over a life of submission; she thinks of daddy, thankfully not present among the crowd, of his sweet voice and his love hidden among the shadows, of the boundless care and infinite tenderness between them, of his whispered words and the laughter they’d shared despite a world that had been so unfair to them both, of the way he’d smiled down at her when they’d danced on her twelfth birthday, carefree and happy; and as a filtered order of letting arrows fly against her reaches her ears, she thinks of Daniel, sweet, wonderful Daniel who hadn’t been allowed a life, who had been torn from her too soon, who had been but the first victim of a lifetime of blood and loss, who had loved her, whom she had loved so very dearly.

 _I am ready,_ she tells herself, _for whatever it is or it is not after this, I am ready._ Yet, she’s denied, once again.

* * *

 

 

Nearly three days later, Regina stumbles onto the wet ground of the forest, hands and feet finding the cold mud as she bends down, close to convulsions, her body making an effort to vomit yellowish bile and the few bites of bread she’d managed to stomach that morning. Her head pounds, incessantly, and her whole body rebels against herself, a hot wire of pain and confusion at the magic she’d just used, the first flare of such that she’d been capable of ever since the fairy spell had been set upon her. She tries standing up, and fails miserably. Her knees give up on her, trembling even at the thought of supporting her light weight, and the rest of her shakes, cold and hot at the same time, her skin and bones unsure of what hurts most. Nausea invades her, but there’s nothing left on her stomach and her throat can’t bare the strain, so she shuts down her instincts and tries to breathe in an out slowly, to calm the dizziness threatening her with unconsciousness.

The swampy ground beneath her palms feels disgusting but cold, and when she forces herself to take a deep and slow breath, she smells the thickness of trees and the humid scent of cold water. She holds onto the feeling, to the idea of cleansing water and open spaces, closing her eyes tightly and fighting against the quivers conquering her body. It’s useless, the world around her an oppressive weight of sensations. She needs to move, she knows; to hide and keep away from anyone who may cross her path, to force herself to make her way back to her palace, the only safe place left in the world for her, yet she fears the mere of idea of moving, positive that her legs won’t hold her, that the pounding in her head will only get worse, that she will black out the moment she tries the simplest of movements.

Her lips part almost of their own volition, sticking together briefly as they’re so parched, and she realizes that they’re beginning to shape a familiar name, beginning to ask for the unwitting help of a demon that may choose not to even try, or may just ask for a price that she’s not willing to pay. She’s weak, tired and sick, and she hesitates. Yet, she knows, Rumpelstiltskin may just be her only choice in her actual predicament, even if his glee at her humiliation is already much more than she should be willing to give. _Survive,_ she thinks, sure than even mother would choose to do so. Survive and take your revenge; survive and kill Snow White for refusing to end everything once and for all; survive just to prove that she’s the one that should kill you.

Regina licks her dry lips repeatedly, the taste of vomit prevalent and disgusting, enough to make her dry heave and to stop her voice from crawling up and away just in time to hear someone else’s nearby. Panic sets immediately, her heart palpitating fast and sudden against her chest, as if punching her to startle her into action. She moves, violently, the dizzying sensation sticking to her skull making it impossible for her to know whether there’s someone close, how many people there might be, or whether she’s simply delirious and painting monsters where there are none. Eyes open and breathing ragged, she stumbles two steps forward before she’s falling down on her knees yet again, the wet sound of her limbs bending against the ground sickening, yet not enough to chase away the voices that she’s now sure belong to real people.

“We shoul–”

“She’s hurt… wouln… come, come now an…”

Voices come and go, and Regina whimpers silently, entirely too aware of her weakened state, her depleted magic, her rags and her thinness and her dizziness, her mind conjuring the worst scenarios. Is this it, then – should she die an anonymous beggar somewhere deep in the darkness of the woods, unrecognized and pathetic after being stubbornly pardoned from her execution by her rightful enemy? She refuses, refuses with all her might, yet the next jerky movement that she manages is swiftly stopped, a body that feels stronger than any other she’s ever known holding her still. She fights the hold, arms weak and senses confused, believing that it is a mighty man keeping her prisoner, the fur of his coat suddenly touching the skin of her cheek making her jerk back, punch back with determined yet fragile fists, like a little girl playing at duels. She cries against him when it all fails, wounded animal and desperate woman both, revolves in his embrace even when it doesn’t budge, blind with fury yet tired beyond her own imagination.

“It’s alright, it’s… help–we just want…”

“… her go.”

Abruptly, she’s let go, and the little strength she’d gathered goes just as fast, so that she stumbles out of the man’s hold and right back towards the ground, tumbling down gracelessly and painfully, her hands failing to catch her fall so that it’s her arm and hip that bear the brunt of the plunge, her shoulder slicing her with sharp pain right before her head crashes against the dirt, bouncing once, before plummeting her into darkness. 

* * *

 

Regina comes back slowly, confusion settling even before she opens up her eyes. She’s disoriented and a little cold, her back uncomfortable where she seems to be laying on the ground, and her mouth feels pasty. She makes an effort to center herself and recall where she might be, and when it does come back to her, she sits up with a start, her gasping breaths betrayed by a coughing fit the moment she does so.

“Careful there, milady, you shouldn’t rush yourself.”

Through eyes that seem nearly stuck together, Regina spies the figure of her interloper, and even before she can put conscious thought behind her movements, she stands up on weary legs, her hand making a cupping motion as if ready to conjure up a fireball. Her skin tingles and her magic flickers, the spell within her palm flaring up to life briefly only to extinguish the next second, leaving behind nothing but a slight itch.

“We mean you no harm.”

The words get lost somewhere inside her head, where logical thought is entirely impossible, and where madness prods at her to run and attack at the same time, to do away with this situation even before she knows where it is that she finds herself exactly. She has half a mind to be curious and cautions still, yet, and she runs over her surroundings with quick moving eyes. There’s a fire lighting the small clearing of the woods where she’d been laying, on as comfortable a cot as one could possibly make outdoors. She’d been laid down on some kind of woolen blanket and covered in furs, she realizes only now. Blinking rapidly, she gazes at what she must for now assume are her assailants, and is surprised when she finds herself staring at two figures, and when one of them is a woman, her armor and heavy weapons a jarring attire when her face is thin and pretty, her hair long and shining with the light of the fire.

“I believe we should be worried about her hurting us,” the woman says, her words aimed at her companion even as her eyes settle on Regina and refuse to leave her. One hand settled on the hilt of her sword, she takes a step forward, and Regina believes her silent threat with the experience of someone who’s seen many people cut down before.

“Mulan, please,” the other says, a smooth voice with a hint of pleading in it, and Regina would do well to look at him, except that her eyes seem much more interested in staying fixed on the woman.

Mulan, however, answers to her name on the man’s lips by relaxing her stance the smallest bit, her shoulders lowering and stealing away her predatory demeanor, even if her hands remain on her sword. With a huff, she says, “You’ve seen the magic, and you said yourself the town was brewing with news of the Evil Queen’s escape!”

“We don’t know that she is th–”

“Oh, please, Phillip!” And there’s such fond exasperation on the tone that Regina has to bite her lower lip not to chuckle.

Nonetheless, there is something interesting in the two before her, and Regina considers her options briefly, gauging to the best of her ability the true threat they may present. If she’s honest with herself, her chances of escaping anything at all are slim to none, and her wisest choice might just be to navigate a truce in between herself and her would-be saviors. After all, she doesn’t know where she is at all, her magic is but a tingle longing to build itself up, she’s hurt and tired, and she still doesn’t have a pair of shoes to cover her naked feet, a fact that seems intent on pointedly reminding her of her vulnerability, and of the past weeks spent in a dank cell.

“If I may interrupt your… _charming_ discussion, I must claim innocence on the deceitful accusations being made,” Regina interjects, instilling her body with a casual stance, her voice with humor so as to dispel the tension in between them, so as to place herself as non-threating and barely annoying at best. “I did not, in fact, escape my prison,” she clarifies. “I was set free.”

The incredulous set of eyes that settle upon her are nearly comical, Mulan’s face a picture of contempt and disbelief. Phillip’s brown gaze merely strays in between his companion and Regina herself, as if deep down he knows he’s been dismissed for his more interesting friend. Regina does bother to take one brief look at him, though, to study a scruffy beard that can’t quite hide baby-faced features, and to notice the mannerisms of royalty in the way he holds himself together, leg thrust forward valiantly and hands settled purposelessly on his sword, merely a resting place for limbs taught to always make others take notice of the fanciful and jeweled handle of his weapon. Phillip won’t swing his sword, though, Regina knows, his whole demeanor projecting calm hospitality, but Mulan may just yet do so.

“There is no need for lies, milady,” Phillip intercedes, and Regina doesn’t know which part it is that he doesn’t believe – that she’s in fact the Evil Queen Mulan knows her to be, or that there was no escape of her prison but by Snow White’s own will.

Scoffing lightly, Regina glowers, “It’s Your Majesty, dear.”

Unexpectedly, Phillip’s following reaction startles her, his change in posture immediate after her words. Legs drawn together and arms spread forward, he offers a perfectly and well-practiced bow, head and eyes bent down properly, and shoulders squared admirably.

“It’s an honor, Your Majesty; allow me to introduce myself. I am Prince Phillip, and this is my faithful and sworn companion, Fa Mulan.”

Regina cocks an eyebrow up, stupefied yet mildly delighted, and can’t help the peal of laughter that emerges from her parted lips. “Well, I didn’t know they bred them so polite these days.”

“And so senseless at times, too,” Mulan snaps, barely hiding that she’d rather call him stupid altogether. “There is no reason for us to bow before a prisoner of war, and the Evil Queen at that. We should hand her back to the _lawful_ queen.”

“Ugh, such honor,” Regina counters. “How terribly disgusting; and to think I spied a brief spot of amusement for a moment there.” Throwing her shoulders back as if in challenge, Regina stares straight into Mulan’s pretty eyes, and bites her next words with care. “However, Fa Mulan, you may find your self-proclaimed queen with no wish to set eyes upon me anymore. As I very clearly stated before, I was set free.”

Mulan’s eyes remain unconvinced, and yet they don’t leave Regina’s, as if judging the possible truth of her words. Regina stares back shamelessly. After all, she is being nothing but truthful, her staggering into the woods with a flare of wild magic only possible after Snow White herself had opened the iron bars enclosing her inside her cell, and after she’d put a knife between her fingers and had foolishly expected Regina not to use it. How disappointed she’d looked then, when Regina had lunged forward with every bit of strength she’d had left to dig the blade on her stomach, searching for blood. There had been none, however, whatever bargain Snow had struck with Rumpelstiltskin protecting her from Regina’s bloodlust and murdering hands, and if Regina hadn’t found it in her to be angry at the imp quite yet, then it was only because she had nothing left after the fury that had flared inside her at Snow White’s futile trial of faith. It had been enough to pull her magic away from the spell holding it trapped, but not quite that it had landed her back in the safety of her palace as she’d intended, rather than in the middle of the woods, sick enough that she now found herself in the hands of this quirky pair of strangers.

 Phillip turns to Mulan then, walking the few steps that have kept them apart until now, and reaching out for her arm in a familiar gesture that has Mulan turning towards him with ease. Regina has little time to ponder on the nature of their relationship before Phillip is mouthing a rather interesting set of words.

“I figured, perhaps, we may strike a bargain.”

Interest picked, Regina is miffed by the following whispered discussion between the other two, and which she finds herself not privy to. They draw close together, and so Regina decides to ignore them altogether and look about her instead, wondering at her chances of escape. Her companions don’t seem like the kind to hurt her mindlessly, but then she knows better than to trust kind faces and kinder words, particularly from those wearing armor and carrying weapons, when she finds herself rather vulnerable.

They’ve set up camp on a small clearing of the woods, and their surroundings are thick enough with trees that Regina can’t see far beyond the small cot they’ve built for her with a few spare blankets and some fur. The sky has been darkened by a heavy and cold night, nearly starless, and the fire built a few paces away is barely enough to shine orange hues on the skin of the other two. Looking up at the sky, Regina wonders briefly about the time passed, and thinks that she may have been unconscious for longer than a day. After all, she’d encountered Phillip and Mulan at night, and they’d had time enough to listen to the news of her supposed escape from prison. There is no point in dwelling further on the matter right now, however, and so she focuses instead on the cool scent of sweet water reaching her nostrils, and the faraway sound of calm waves hitting the shore. There must be a lake close by, which only means that her pathways are closed by woods and water, and that the horses tied together to a lower branch not too far away might be completely pointless were she to try and escape on one of them. They’re not even saddled, having been freed of their burden for the night, and Regina is not particularly sure that her body is in any condition to ride bareback and with no possible way of knowing where she is, or where to go. It seems, then, that her chances are very much reduced to this bargain that Phillip wishes to strike, although she can’t for the life of her figure out what these two could possibly want from her. Magic, she must guess, for what other strength does she have left now that she’s been stripped of title, lands and pride?

Carefully, Regina reaches for her magic in a vain attempt at conjuring herself away from this situation. It’s futile, she knows, and when a cold sweat breaks against her forehead and the back of her neck, she stops pushing. Her body hasn’t flushed out the fairies’ spell quite yet, and the effort she’d subjected herself to in order to transport herself away from Snow’s castle and to this lost part of the woods has left her depleted of energy. Her magic is but a tingling thread trying to find its way back to her, pricking at her much the same way her limbs do when one goes numb for too long a time. Oh, her magic _will_ come back soon enough, but it’d be foolish of her to think that she can exert the necessary control to finish her way back to the palace with it with the weakness that has woven itself to her bones.

Frustrated, cold, and honestly unsure of how much longer she can remain standing, she breaks the council before her by demanding, “Stop whispering already, and tell me what you want.”

“Phillip,” Mulan warns.

Thankfully, he follows no advice, and turns big eyes towards Regina, much like those of a puppy asking for a treat. “I mean to ask for your help in freeing my beloved,” he requests, his head softly bowed.

Regina scoffs carelessly, not caring for his submissive stance. She’s cold, hungry and tired, tired enough that even anger feels like too much of an effort, and the last thing she wants to be doing is granting some stranger’s desires, never mind her own perilous situation.

“And why, pray tell, would I help you? As your loyal companion wisely pointed out,” and she takes a moment to grasp at whatever wits she still possesses, a moment to take back stolen pride and to even draw a bit of a careless flourish with her hand, “I am the Evil Queen.”

Phillip blinks, and it is Mulan who answers in his name, a scowl marring pretty features and her tone that of a petulant child when she explains, “He means to offer you safe passage to wherever you desire to go; we shall escort you.”

Regina perks up at the idea almost immediately, the sense of relief surprising in its strength as it washes over her. She’s so very tired, so bone weary, after all, and finding these two kind strangers feels like the one bit of luck she’s had in years of nothing but beating the heaviest of odds. Rather than confessing to what will be a thoughtless agreement, never mind the price to be paid, Regina smirks to the best of her abilities, and says, “I suppose I have ridden with worse.” Then, “Name your price, then, Prince Phillip.”

He smiles, softly, far too softly, absentmindedly refusing to consider Regina a threat, or even to take her seriously, and motions towards the fire burning before him. “Perhaps over some food, if you will, Your Majesty.”

Regina acquiesces with ease, understanding Phillip’s offer to break bread for what it is – a truce of honor for as long as destiny keeps them together, and a promise of no harm to come. Soon, she’s sitting by the fire with borrowed furs covering her and shielding her from the cold winter night, watching as Phillip disappears in search for water to warm for tea while Mulan gathers leaves and herbs from her own purse. Regina watches, glassy-eyed and tired, wondering if they won’t try to put her to sleep with some natural drug, after all, choosing to execute their loyalty while keeping her under the softest of cuffs. She may just find relief in such a thing, in allowing her body to heal under the care of a properly brewed draught, but the thought of the fairy dust still clinging to her every pore and fighting its war inside her makes her feel queasy at the idea instead.

Distracted as she is, a little dizzy too, she’s startled when Mulan drops heavily next to her, her armor making for an awkward landing. Regina blinks owlishly at her, entirely too tired to even think about confrontation, and yet surprised when she finds none. Instead, with a grunt of clear disapproval but with gentle hands, Mulan offers her some folded fabrics, as well as a pair of old and well-worn boots that nonetheless look to Regina like a saving grace.

“They’re not fit for a queen,” Mulan quips, her words a shameless challenge, as if she can only offer Regina such a kind gesture while reminding her that she’s unwanted here. Mulan would have gladly given her up to the closest sheriff post, Regina knows, or would have simply left her to fend for her own, yet now that she’s saddled with her presence, this is the path she chooses.

The corners of Regina’s lips twitch as she tries to avoid a smile, and she’s quick to take the offering while jokingly pointing at her own clothing situation, the starchy woolen grey dress that she’s worn for weeks, which probably smells as foul as it feels against her skin. “I’ve had worse, I assure you, dear.”

Regina stands up on wobbly feet, reaching out blindly when her knees shake and her stomach sends an unpleasant wave of nausea up her chest and all the way up to her throat, threatening vomit. Her hand lands against the one Mulan unintentionally offers as support, and when they touch, Regina feels hard callouses in between patches of soft skin. She has the hands of a warrior, used to weaponry yet unused to human touch, if her startled gasp when Regina holds on tighter is anything to go by. They stare at each other for a moment then, Regina standing higher yet close to collapsing out of sheer tiredness, and Mulan sitting down yet steady as a rock, and Regina thinks she may just be the most beautiful person she’s seen in a very long time. Mulan’s features are unlike any she’s seen before, her eyes slanted, her skin a light golden shade, her hair black and shiny, falling straight as arrows all the way down to her shoulders, and her cheeks sharp. She wonders, briefly, about Fa Mulan, loyal companion of a conventional prince, wonders about the place she comes from and the circumstances that have made her hands so familiar with the shape of a sword. Then, she wonders what it might be like to kiss her, and can’t help but be amused at her own thoughts. She must truly be desperate for affection, if this stranger with a frown between pretty eyes and such obvious disfavor in her gaze can affect her with such notions. Still, momentarily, she wonders too if Mulan would allow herself to be seduced, not just into her bed, but into her service. Not that Regina has very much of an idea of what the future holds for her now, but she can’t help herself from the allure of strength and kindness wrapped up in just the right hint of discontent. She’s always liked people who know how to be honest with her, after all, even if she’s usually inclined to disregard their advice.

She disentangles herself from Mulan eventually, and without much consideration for the matter, disrobes herself in as fast a movement as she can manage, ridding herself of the coarse fabric that has been her clothing for far too long now.

Behind her, Mulan exclaims, “What are you doing?”

“I thought that was obvious,” she replies, a hint of a smile on her lips when she looks behind her to see Mulan averting her eyes and fixing them on the fire instead.

“Phillip may come back any moment now,” Mulan says quietly, her excuse weak when the blush painting her cheeks glows beautifully in between the hints of firelight coloring her skin.

Regina can’t help herself from teasing; on the contrary, she’s quite pleased with the entertainment. “Why, dear, you think he shall mind the view?” she taunts, with just a hint of provocation.

Mulan doesn’t take the bait however, and merely groans her disapproval, keeping her gaze firmly planted away from Regina’s naked flesh while murmuring something about the cold and how Regina shouldn’t brave it after days of unconsciousness anyway, and about just what kind of fool Phillip is for allowing an unpredictable woman to hold their honor in her palms. Regina takes a moment to ponder just how much she can get away with, but Mulan is not completely wrong in that the cold won’t do her any good. Rather than keep teasing then, she takes a disgusted look at the grey wool still between her hands, and without a second thought, throws it right into the fire, effectively putting an end to the last shreds of her days as a prisoner. Her ill-fitting undergarments follow, and as she stands completely naked in the middle of the woods, she digs her feet on the ground with intent, as if trying to grow roots.

Reaching for the clothes Mulan offered, she makes an effort to not look at herself for too long a time, knowing that she’s far too thin, that her skin feels rough and dry, and that the healthy tan that she’d won during her days of war has turned into a haggard and ill-looking grayish pale, wherever her skin isn’t purple or green from not yet cured bruising. She dresses quickly, suddenly thankful that Mulan didn’t choose to take a look after all. There’s no corsetry to be had in the clothes provided, but the riding pants, thick blouse, fur vest and boots feel as luxurious as her most expensive gown to her at that moment. The clothes are all well-worn and obviously have been washed repeatedly, but they feel nice and clean against her skin, and warm her up almost instantly, so much so that she can’t help herself from turning to Mulan once she’s fully dressed, and uttering a nearly timid _thank you_.

Mulan nods her assent, and only after Regina is sitting down and covered, does she dare look at her yet again, if the gaze that she tries to set immediately against Regina’s own wavers momentarily on her chest and the skin of her collarbones.

Regina smiles, and withholding her instinct to provoke, laces her tone with gentleness when she says, “There is nothing wrong with it.”

“What?”

“Looking, there is nothing wrong with looking.”

Mulan’s blush flares with such celerity that Regina has to laugh, and in such predicament Prince Phillip finds them when he does come back from his trip to the lake. He looks between them, obviously baffled at Mulan’s grumbling complaints and Regina’s wide smile. Putting them both out of their misery, Regina chooses to get back to business, and so takes her eyes away from Mulan and searches Phillip’s gaze instead.

“Let us speak then, Prince Phillip, and tell me just what exactly it is that you expect from me.”

Prince Phillip speaks then, and as if given life by her request like one of those little wind-up toys that had been so popular during Snow’s teenager years, he simply does not shut up after – not for _days._ During the next three days, they travel north, and soon enough Regina begins to discern the places about her, until she’s certain that her companions are in fact taking her exactly where she’d asked – back to her palace. The days are long and boring, and Regina tires easily, walking leaving her winded and riding making her bruises painful anew, and impeding their healing. Phillip seems oblivious, but Mulan, quietness and observation where her companion provides noise and abstraction, notices her plight and does her best to dispel any discomfort, forcing them into far more pit stops than such a journey would generally demand, and making sure that they change between their legs and the horses often enough. It is also her horse that Regina shares when they ride, and Regina takes no issue in leaning her weight back and into Mulan’s warm hold, allowing her to guide the horse and giving up control in the face of Mulan’s gruff gentleness.

As they journey, building fires at night and travelling lightly transited roads during the day, or even the middle of the woods for lack of better coverage, Phillip speaks unguardedly and easily. His story is simple enough that Regina barely pays attention at first – a princess and a witch, a curse trapping the beautiful damsel behind a forest of trees, brambles and thorns springing about her resting place, shielding it from the outside world and preventing his passage with dark magic that makes them grow whenever he dares cut them. It makes for something pretty and romantic, a tale like those Little Ace had loved so much and had insisted on reading out loud for her, even as she’d always finish her readings with scorn for the damsels and the princes both, having no taste for that kind of love herself. Much time is spent on Phillip’s love for his princess, and on the attributes that make her the subject of such passion, so much so that Regina nearly overlooks a tale that she knows well, and just which witch it was that put this particular princess to sleep. However, details reveal themselves among Phillip’s words, and Regina realizes that he’s telling the tale of Briar Rose’s daughter, whom Regina herself had once upon a time help curse, encouraging Maleficent to defeat the enemies that had wronged her so. Never had Maleficent confessed to Briar Rose’s crimes against her, but Regina remembers the pain etched within her eyes, and the mirth with which she’d told Regina about trapping the prince as well, making him into a creature that could never wake his princess. And even so, with a sleeping princess and a cursed prince, one more spell had been cast upon the castle where the princess lay, a forest touched by magic that Regina had seen Maleficent cast from nothing, her own still inexperienced fingers trembling with excitement at the sight. What twist of fate, then, that she should be delivered into the safe arms of her friend’s rivals now that they’re no longer friends, and asked to dispel the secret of the ever-growing branches in exchange for her own safety.

It is with pettiness in her heart that Regina promises Mulan and Phillip both the magic that will part their way to their princess, as well as knowledge of the potion they will have to concoct. As she does so, she thinks that this may just be the first favor fate has ever done her in a lifetime of obstacles and fortunes given to no one but her own enemies, and wonders if it is perhaps a sign of changing tides, even in such a dire situation as she finds herself in.

Regina’s promise only spurs Phillip’s hopeful excitement, bringing forth every tale possible about his short courtship of Princess Aurora, and the deep feeling that had joined them from the moment they had set eyes upon one another. They grow so tiresome and repetitive that on the second day of their journey, and without much of a thought, Regina twirls her hand in the air, effectively deafening herself to the prince’s voice. Magic curls about her fingers instinctively, relief flooding her at the knowledge that power and control is already taking shape inside her after being trapped for so long.

“What did you do?” Mulan snaps next to her, looking at the oblivious prince, prattling away still, and then at Regina, accusation written in her eyes.

Curling her lips in amusement, Regina shrugs and says, “Just a little trick, dear; if I have to hear one more word about Aurora’s hair and the way it shines against the morning sun I may just succumb to my most terrible inclinations.”

“But how–”

“A deafening spell – terribly useful for boring meetings with inconsequential court members, I assure you. Just nod and smile, and the prince won’t be able to tell the difference.”

“That seems rude,” Mulan states, even if her frown can’t completely hide away something that might just be a grin.

Grinning herself, Regina replies, “For future reference, politeness is never my goal.”

The spell lasts but a moment, but it is enough to make the prospect of the rest of her journey a more bearable affair. The easy camaraderie she has developed with Mulan, too, despite the other woman’s relentless denial of such silent connection, provides an easy and delightful distraction that allows her both to carry herself with confidence, and to not dwell for too long moments on what the future holds for her, or on the grieving anger that she’s sure will strike her once she allows herself to think momentarily of Snow White.

Nonetheless, the nights are cold and long, and they give way to quietness among their little group, only Phillip’s inexhaustible cheeriness breaking up the mood from time to time. Her companions travel light and with little provisions, yet they share what little they have – cheese that is too soft and that runs the risk of turning moldy any moment, hard bread that they dunk on tasteless barley gruel so it won’t hurt their teeth, and flavorless soups that they cook with whatever they can find. Mulan makes some efforts towards hunting, but the weather is too cold and the war has killed all life, it seems, so that not even a rabbit crosses their paths, and it is only the howling of hungry wolves that they hear for sounds of the wild life about them. They share ale so bitter that Regina all but dreams of sweet strawberry wine, yet Mulan refuses to do the same with the tea that she brews dutifully every night, and which only Phillip has the privilege of tasting. Regina wants to whine at the exclusion, something childishly jealous consuming her as she watches what seems like the most intimate exchange between the other two. However, the almost ritualistic nature of Mulan’s movements stop her from doing so. Lacking the natural yet always quick quality that her movements have whenever she’s reaching for her sword, Mulan’s hands move delicately instead, hypnotic as they carefully distill tea leaves that smell bitter yet spicy, and painstakingly attentive as they pour it on intricately painted ceramic cups.

Phillip sleeps peacefully and profoundly, and soon enough Regina suspects that Mulan’s tea is laced with a sleeping draught that allows for such a feat. Mulan herself is a light sleeper, silent when she wakes and still in her slumber, so quick on her step after only a second of alertness that Regina believes her to be deadly, if only given proper motivation.

Regina doesn’t sleep well, senseless nightmares making her fidgety and afraid of closing her eyes, the black and red tint of her dreams encroaching in on her and forcing her out of sleep in nervous fits after barely resting for a couple of hours. That she’s sleeping uncomfortably on the wet ground, cold despite the fires and always watched by either Mulan or Phillip, lest she runs away in the middle of the night, truly doesn’t help her grasp at comfort. Nonetheless, waking up outside calms the too-fast paced beating of her heart with nothing but fresh air and open spaces, chasing away the nightmares of closed cellars and her own tiny, child-like voice asking to be released. She touches the ground beneath her as she wakes, every time, feeling for the dampness of winter and the grounding sense of reality it provides, pushing her ghosts as far away as she might, burying them at the back of her head where they won’t dare come out. They haunt her still, however, mother’s prison confusing itself with Leopold’s and Snow’s, with Rumpelstiltskin’s, awakening her with the feel of tightness about her wrists and tingling about her belly.

“Drink this,” Mulan offers brusquely on the third night, when Regina hasn’t quite recovered from the darkness of her dreams, so that Mulan’s voice feels too loud and almost like it may just be part of the nightmare.

She startles, and peers at the cup being offered as if a completely foreign object. Mulan motions impatiently at her, and Regina moves without much thought to take the drink, some of that tea that she’s been denied so far. A floral and warm scent wafts up to her nose, and Regina drinks mindlessly, the yellowish brew sweeter than she’d expected. It only occurs to her that it might be drugged after it’s nearly gone, but then, she wouldn’t peg Mulan for someone capable of such dishonest trickery. The brew does relax her somewhat, however, warming up her insides in ways food hasn’t accomplished these past few days, when even the blandest of choices has been enough to cause nausea. Slightly relaxed, and sufficiently bone-weary to let down her guard, Regina sits up against a tree trunk and leans back, lowering her shoulders and closing her eyes, a silent sigh crossing parted lips.

“You’re not sleeping,” Mulan states next to her, “you barely eat and the only reason you seem to be able to trek with us is sheer stubbornness.”

“Aw, dear, are you worried?” Regina mocks, amused tilt to her lips even as she remains resting with her eyes closed.

“We can’t walk into your palace with a corpse, Your Majesty, and if you don’t survive the journey, it will all have been for naught.”

Regina tilts a curious eyebrow as she opens her eyes and turns to regard Mulan, not unlike the many times she has already done so during these past three days. She’s tempted to laugh, amusement teasing the corner of her mouth, the severe seriousness of Mulan’s speech adding tough urgency to her words, as if she’s ready to lay her life for a quest that isn’t her own, as if she would perhaps be happy to do so. Had she been in love with the prince, it may have had a certain kind of tragic sense, the woman willing to sacrifice herself in the path of someone else’s happiness, but while Regina can’t quite put her finger on Mulan’s problems, she understands that they ran deeper than unrequited passion championed by a deeply rooted sense of honor. Not for the first time, Regina spies the blackest of shadows in Mulan’s becoming face, cast there by a fat and oddly tinted cloud of past regrets and unspeakable disgrace. Mulan is running away from something, Regina is sure, and that she found herself the excuse of an honorable quest in order to do so is only a wide open window into the inmost parts of her soul.

“What is your story, Fa Mulan; what are you running away from?” Regina questions, much more interested in her companion’s secrets than in the fleeting thought of trying to grasp sleep again. The sun will be up in little time, and they’re already so close to the palace that she might as well wait for her eyes to close again as she lays down in the comfort of her very own bed.

Mulan has no answer for her, her unwillingness to talk made clear by her turning her back towards Regina as she busies herself with putting herbs back into her purse and other menial tasks, already readying herself for her the day’s journey.

“Oh, come on,” Regina prods, teasing, “surely you know your duties; you must entertain your queen.”

Mulan turns to her, hardness in her eyes and the thin line of her mouth, and then in the words that follow. “Is that what we all must be – entertainment for the queen? I am not your subject, and I owe you nothing.” Then, in a lower tone that is equally harsh, “Neither does the rest of the world, and you have already claimed so much for yourself that you didn’t deserve.”

“The world can’t pay enough for the debt I am owed, and you will do well to reserve your judgment and bite that ignorant tongue.”

“Or _what_?”

The challenge enough would have been cause to snap Mulan’s neck right then and there, but the spike of fury that travels up her spine is what makes her movements jerky and her instincts impulsive. Regina’s hand flies up and curls into itself, but the spell misses its intended target, her muddled senses and tired limbs impeding swift execution, and her magic still clumsy at best, much more so when faced against Mulan’s stoic and quiet rage. Leaves rustle under Mulan’s feet, barely, and before Regina can try her hand at a second conjuring, she finds her wrist held tight in Mulan’s grip and pressed up and into the tree trunk, the tightness not quite registering when Mulan’s sharp sword finds its way to her unprotected neck. The steel is cold and unwavering in Mulan’s hands, and Regina knows that the only reason she’s still alive is because Mulan wishes it so.

“Well then, go ahead,” Regina whispers in the small space between them, briefly and maddeningly thinking that dying with Mulan’s face up close and the hot puffs of her breath mingling with her own harsh panting is a much preferable death that the one she was nearly dealt days ago.

“I would, I should,” Mulan answers, even as her grip remains motionless, dangerous but not yet fatal.

Regina narrows her eyes, mistrust yet simple understanding taking shape before her despite the sudden peril of her situation. She laughs, cruelty in the sound this time as she smirks with unbidden delight. “But you won’t, will you, dear? You silly, heroic lot, always needing an excuse to bring death about.”

“Isn’t what you’ve done, who you are, excuse enough?”

And Regina knows that Mulan is asking such words to herself, grappling with the thought that she has the Evil Queen at her mercy, and that by the gods the world would be a better place without her in it; yet what has Regina done in the past few days that Mulan should be judge and executor? The truth of the matter is that the agreement made between them both and the prince has been fulfilled thus far, and that Regina has been on her best behavior, if only out of sheer exhaustion.

Taunting, still cruel, Regina mocks, “No, it is not, is it? Not when you don’t know the truths behind the rumors, not when Snow White might be as much to blame as myself for this dreadful war of ours.”

“But you are evil, you are–”

“And what do you know of me, Fa Mulan of foreign lands? Not every rumor spread about me is true.”

“Enough of them must be,” is Mulan’s quiet answer, a whisper that betrays confusion as much as the small frown between her eyes, stealing away the determination present in the hand resting upon the sword still at Regina’s throat. “And what of what you will do, Your Majesty?”

“What I will do?” Regina questions, this time making the confusion hers, rather than Mulan’s.

Looking wild rather than as severely serene as she has thus far, Mulan states her next words with such certainty that they must surely be a prophecy. “Something terrible – too determined to die or give up and with nothing left to lose, you won’t forgive Snow White, and we will all pay for it.”

 _Something terrible,_ Regina thinks, wildly. Mulan’s not wrong, not in her assessment nor in her soothsaying, for what else can Regina do but something terrible? What else can she do when life, love and pride has been stolen from her grasp repeatedly and cruelly, when retribution has been denied and when her enemies thrive under the guise of promised happiness? What else might she do when everything is lost but her resolve and her recklessness, when all she has left is the prospect of stealing lives the same way the world stole hers when it first made sure her path crossed Snow White’s? What else is left, when she’s no one but the Evil Queen herself?

She laughs, maddeningly so, and it makes Mulan flinch, if her hold doesn’t loosen, not on her wrist or her sword. How cruel, that someone with the kindness swimming in Mulan’s eyes should be the one to decide whether the world could be spared pain if only she slits the throat of someone she’s honored bound to, someone she all but saved. How delightful, that for once in Regina’s life it should be her that is spared pain by the benevolence of a stranger, in much the same way Snow was once, when the huntsman refused to swing his sword and unwittingly began the steady path towards the war fought and now lost. Hinting at compassion, Regina lifts her free hand, not with harming intent or with clumsy magic brimming inside it, but with softness in its touch when she leans it on the apple of Mulan’s cheek. The skin under hers is rougher than expected, but nice to the touch, and Regina cups the cheek under her hand without shame, hating that Mulan won’t allow herself the weakness of leaning into the caress.

“Don’t worry yourself over nothing, dear,” Regina coos. “Me and my evil deeds are not on you, and you don’t want my blood on your hands. Let us walk this path together for as long as we must, and I promise we shall part ways peacefully, my thankfulness and the secret to freeing pretty Princess Aurora in your hands.”

The clouds in Mulan’s eyes don’t dissipate, her stony expression revealing nothing. Mulan has no desire for blood, however, if her hands are quite capable of claiming it, and soon enough she’s stepping back, liberating Regina from her deadly embrace and stepping back from her touch, embarrassment present in her flushed cheeks and the closed off demeanor she puts back her sword with. She looks down and away from her Regina, displeased.

“Get some sleep,” she orders then. “We will end our journey tomorrow, and then we can be done with each other.” 

* * *

 

Regina’s home – the Dark Palace, as it has come to be known in the past years, ever since she’d claimed it for herself along with her title of Evil Queen – appears before her eyes at sunlight the next day, and by the time the sun is high up in the sky, as bright as it dares be in the cloudless winter day that has thus awoken, midday has struck and Regina walks the threshold of her property with her small party in tow. A smattering of children, ill-dressed yet mildly well-behaved and definitely well-fed had followed them from the moment they’d first crossed the Royal State, and they only stop their bellowing race once the horses have made their way past the front gates, where soldiers welcome them instead.

It takes a minute before she’s recognized, and Regina can’t help the upturn of her mouth when the few guards present first try to stop them, and then suddenly bow before them once the quickest one of them all spots her and alerts the rest with a gasped out order. There is too much movement then, and in the moment it takes for Regina to dismount from her place above Mulan’s horse and for her feet to touch the cold marble floors of her front patio, a commotion has unleashed before her, soldiers trying at once to kneel, call for a higher authority, and point their swords at Regina’s companions with uncertainty and murderous intent both, lest they be kidnappers rather than saviors. Regina clears up the confusion with ease, finding immense relief when her orders are followed quickly and exactly, and when Mulan and Prince Phillip are freed of threats by nothing but her own will. And oh, how she’s missed command and obedience, how sweet it is to be queen and be answered to with such swift loyalty.

It isn’t long before familiar faces crowd the entrance, Duchess Adela at the front and followed by her ever-loyal Claude, old Countess Ninny and her granddaughters making haste inasmuch as the old woman’s legs permit. Not far behind them, Regina catches sight of the huntsman’s glassy eyes, but she doesn’t linger, not when he’s guarding father’s steps, who is running at the risk of his own knees, Regina knows, always weak and now even more so as the years pass and travelling becomes uncomfortable. It is to him Regina runs nonetheless, her own tiredness giving way only once she’s all but collapsed into his arms, both of hers around his shoulders and her face finding her favorite hideaway spot against his neck, where he smells of powder and a hint of tobacco. He cries even when Regina finds that she cannot, maybe the public about her not allowing her the freedom to do so, or maybe her exhaustion being much too heavy to bear the tightness of tears. She clings to father, however, listens to his softly spoken words even as she shushes them, finding comfort and giving it back in equal measure. It’s foolish to take too long a time in such manner, though, when Regina’s body is ready to collapse at any second, and when she would rather spare herself the humiliation of yet another public fainting spell. Thus, she takes command of her court with familiarity and orders herself taken to her chambers, a bath prepared, her windows opened widely and every comfort provided. Having nearly forgotten about her party of saviors, it is her espionage of Mulan’s hardened face on the corner of her eye what makes her order them cared for as well.

Ridding her mind of the memories of the past few days with the same ease she later rids herself of her borrowed clothes, Regina soon enough finds herself alone in her bedchambers, father and Adela having been sent away with the excuse of taking a bath, and her lady’s maid having understood Regina’s desire for solitude after one single pointed look. Thus, and for the first time in nearly a year, Regina finds herself completely and utterly alone. After the war, after her imprisonment, and after the last stroke of fate that had taken her to Mulan and Phillip, she’s finally free of any presence, friend or foe, and left to fend for herself in the confines of her own bedchambers. She breathes in slowly, keenly aware of the air going in through her nose and out of her mouth, noisy as it does so, ever louder until she realizes that she’s panting, an odd mix of exhaustion and fear making her anxious. The room is bright and big, however, filled with the cold comfort of luxury, the linens under her hands soft against the fingers she curls about them, and the rich and heavy drapes billowing smoothly with the wintry winds filtering from the open view of her balcony. It smells fresh, of the colorful winter pansies and blue forget-me-nots that have surely been set just for her pleasure by the windows, so the wind will hit them and their scent will carry. Regina forces herself to take a deep breath, to soak in the wafting essences and forget the grime and foulness of war and incarceration, the smell of rotting flesh, dampness and the dusty, pervasive and ancient density of death. It doesn’t quite work, her body still undecided in between revulsion and relief.

Regina closes her eyes, tries to decide between dipping herself in the warm water of her bath or simply collapsing on the bed and hoping for the bliss of dreamless sleep. She hardly remembers the last time her body rested on her comfortable bed, but then again, she hasn’t taken a bath since her ill-fated visit to Maleficent’s fortress, and cleanliness may just offer a further sigh of not just simple relief, but a recovery of her sense of self, lost somewhere in between her efforts at being a war chief and her time as a condemned criminal against the crown. Eyes closed and fighting to slow down her breathing, Regina is suddenly struck with a stab of a memory, an undesired remembrance of the many winters spent scurrying through the corners of this palace, and only enjoying the pleasures of walking without a care when joined by Snow White. The hold of the memory is strong and unrelenting, perhaps because it is held with the consideration of her mortal flesh, her mortal love, and so it is bewildering in its fierceness, lodged as it is in her early womanhood and Snow’s childhood both – one late winter evening, when the sun had waned yet they had found themselves by the edges of the Royal State, horses abandoned a few steps behind after Snow had capriciously began climbing a small slope in search for a smattering of light pink primroses that had matched the color of her winter-chilled cheeks. Young and uncaring, Snow hadn’t worried about the bottom of her rich, light blue coat, now hopelessly covered in dust, nor had she cared for Regina’s warning against the dangers of the slippery ground. And Regina remembers then, almost as if she were back then and there, the perverse delicacy of her own mind, which had so immediately betrayed her desire for Snow to tumble down and hurt herself, to maybe break an arm or a leg, to come out of her adventure with scratches and bruises, with tears marring her pretty, pretty face. So strong had Regina’s cruelty struck her that she’d endeavored to climb after Snow herself, just to keep her safe, so as not to give into her worst and most secret desires, so eager to deny what she was turning into back then, and to preserve her already darkened heart from further obscurity.

“I have it now!” Snow had exclaimed, still chubby hands freed of her gloves and now busy forming a bouquet of wild flowers, and babbling about bringing them back to light up her bedchambers, eager for them as if her rooms weren’t perennially swarmed in flowers by the palace’s servants.

Regina had smiled at her then, the ever-spoiling and sweet companion that she’d forced herself to be back then, doing her best at ignoring the twisting dagger of hatred making itself a deep hole within her chest. The butcher knife stabbing at her heart twists itself now, painfully so, bringing Regina out of her daydream with such suddenness that she feels faint with dizziness, a thin sheen of cold sweat breaking on her forehead.

“ _Snow White_ ,” she intones, speaking at the empty bedroom at large, at no one truly and yet at everyone that can’t possibly hear.

Snow White and her pretty little hands, shaping her destiny even now, first by stealing life away from her with her soft spoken desires and her well-intentioned notions, and now keeping her away from death with more of the same. How she always thinks she knows better, the little brat, and how Regina will make her pay for it. The thought is sudden, yet not surprising – _you’re going to do something terrible,_ Mulan had said, and how right she’d been in her judgment. But then, Snow White had set her free on the world once more, so won’t Regina’s actions from this moment on rest upon the princess’ shoulders? Yes, they shall indeed, and so the destruction of the world will come by her hand but by Snow White’s will, the privilege that had once destroyed Regina’s dreams now cause for everyone else’s to follow. After all, whatever little spell Rumpelstiltskin had cast in order to protect Snow and her prince won’t stop her from hurting anyone else, so she might as well make use of such a selfish and thoughtless act.

Feeling just a tad more invigorated, Regina casts her thoughts away in favor of the mind-numbing actions of taking care of herself. She finds herself in one of her mirrors, and sees the poor figure that she cuts, clad in a baggy shirt that yet manages to be tight about her bust. She divests herself with a sudden and desperate need, and then uncoils her oily hair to the best of her abilities, hating the sight that welcomes her. Nonetheless, before lowering herself into the tub, she takes a good and long look, taking account of the yellowish bruises, the chaffed skin of her thighs, the as of yet unhealed cut on her cheek and the slight swelling around it, the greyish color her skin, now completely devoid of the warm tan the war had afforded her, her sunken eyes and the bags under them, black as bruises and only made more noticeable by her sharpened cheeks. She looks brittle, a porcelain doll that has gone uncared for, marked by age and abuse. She refuses to be such a thing, however, and so she steps into the warm water and uses her bell to call her lady’s maid, her solitude not as precious now that she needs the war and imprisonment scrubbed away from her skin, perfumed and powdered away until there’s nothing left of it on her skin.

There is only so much water and her lady’s maid determined scrubbing can do for her, however, and even while shrouded under the fine fabrics of her nightgown and thick robe, and scented with lavender and sandalwood, Regina’s bones are weary and her spirit just as well, and rightly so. Hatred can only carry her so far, after all, and on this very evening, it only manages to help her stumble her way towards her bed, all the while rejecting offers for food that she knows she won’t be able to stomach.

Blissfully, sleep comes to her, and when she wakes up, she does so to a bright winter morning and soft breeze filtering through her open windows, carrying with it the faint scent of winter flowers and clean humidity. More so, she opens her eyes to the sight of father, carefully hunched on one of her chairs and reaching out for her, one papery thin hand holding onto one of hers. Regina smiles softly at the sight, and searches for his cheek to kiss after throwing furs and covers away from herself. Clad in thick slippers and an even thicker robe, she takes the few steps that separate her from her balcony and stands by the doors, closing her eyes against the weak sunrays and breathing in the cold air, taking in the freshness and luxury, finally allowing herself to relish in her freedom. She’d been so close to death, and quite ready to welcome it too, yet the flash of fear her chest had palpitated with when her face had been covered and her back so surely secured against the execution pole had been real and vulnerable, a sign perhaps that there is still life left for her to live. As for what to do with it, well, as much as she refuses to give definitive shape to the storm brewing inside her, she’s quite certain her mind is made up already. _Something terrible,_ indeed.

Father insists on breakfast, sweetly so, and Regina sits with him gladly, swarmed by the nostalgia of shared meals and a table nicely set before her. However, her poor appetitive only allows her to force a few bites of smoked salmon and soaked bread past her lips, and even that is too much of an effort. Concern laces father’s brows, and soon it follows with her lady’s maid’s and Adela’s, the three of them looking at her as if she may just collapse any second. Truth be told, Regina finds herself inclined to agree, yet her mind feels so completely free of mundane worries that it’s hard to pay attention to their furrowed faces and words of advice. Nonetheless, Adela insists on her care, and Regina allows her old and wise woman to inspect her, all the while listening to Adela prattle about the news of the kingdom that Regina hasn’t asked for yet. She listens to them both with half an ear, dismissing the old woman when she looks at the paleness of her face and then her nails, when she asks about the numbing sensation on her limbs and when she prescribes a diet of eggs, leeks and liver meats, all of which sounds so entirely unappetizing than paying much more attention would surely make her sick.

Adela, dutifully fulfilling what she believes to be her duties, even if such notions are foolish now that Regina is no longer queen, insists on informing Regina of every small detail that she believes to be of importance. And so it is that Regina spends the next three days being persecuted by her advisor and her father both, one seeking decisions on the next steps to take, all the while the other worries over Regina’s lack of obedience in terms of her care. The truth of the matter is that Regina feels as if she might just be somewhere else, her dresses and her chambers failing to remind her of who she is, or perhaps forcing her to rethink her place in the world. After all, no longer queen, what is it that she has left to decide upon? There is certainly the few straggled souls that have made the palace their sanctuary and refuge, and there is the new rule of Snow White to think about, but Regina no longer should think in terms of laws and kingdoms, in the strict norms settled upon the title of queen. Even if she’d so adamantly broken rules and standards with delight as part of her dominance and defiance, no longer can her actions be deemed as unlawful, since there is no rule by which to live under anymore. She’s been cast out, after all, an exile even within her own walls, whoever remains by her side a prisoner of a world outside of the world itself. It feels delightful, yet displeasingly hesitant, full of possibilities yet infuriating in its own limitations. What to do, Regina thinks, what to do if not punish the world that dares cast her out?

It might be her magic, she thinks, and the strange ways it’s choosing to come back to her, in bursts and bubbles, sometimes filling her up with such adamant strength that she has to fire a spell of any kind somewhere, if just to feel grounded to her own body rather than ready to fly high above the clouds. At other moments, she fears it might be trapped still, imprisoned under the fairies’ spell and unable to get out, so that she feels compelled to distill it sweetly, carefully, aiming at precision rather than power. When that happens, and she finally feels it trickle down her spine and past her breastbone, tickling at her arms until it’s pooling inside her palms, bright and smooth, relief washes upon her like never before. Nevertheless, she believes it’s making her mind wobbly, if not a little weak, so that sharp focus is made impossible. Her attention span is completely gone, and even her memory seems to be lacking, so that she finds herself making Adela repeat her words, even if she doesn’t particularly care for them very much at all.

Time passes regardless, and a week into her recovery, Regina finds herself lost still. She endeavors to regain concentration, trying to find her old self by wearing Daniel’s ring around her neck and holding onto it during the oppressive hours of darkness, by taking long walks by father’s side, the huntsman trailing them like a lost puppy, and daddy’s voice a smooth balm against her wandering mind, by forcing just one more bite of food on every luxurious meal. Something keeps nagging at her, however, stealing away her thoughts with abstract attraction and notions of the absurd, something that tingles like magic and whispers at her with the giggling hiss of Rumpelstiltskin’s schemes.

“A world made for you, Your Majesty; made _by_ you,” Rumpelstiltskin had said once, a long time ago, before the war had even been an idea, before the death of her little cousin and the madness that had followed, before an apple and a sleeping curse, before a True Love’s kiss and a death sentence, before there was nothing left to lose.

And how she hates him, malevolent imp, for pulling his strings and drawing his paths, for pushing her towards war and death just to trick Snow into letting her escape, a clause of safety settled upon her and her prince. For who else could Snow’s ally be if not Rumpelstiltskin, and which other goal could he have but to leave Regina no other answer than the Dark Curse he’d claimed to be her destiny? Yet, how she might follow his lead, making of his games and schemes the best that she possibly can, much as she’s done ever since that day she’d first read his name from mother’s spell book.

She wavers, still, remembering the all-encompassing power of the Dark Curse, the way it had muddled her thoughts just by being in her possession, the way it had whispered its way into her head and her heart, speaking of retribution and violent desires, of building a world of no order and no concert, other than that which Regina herself desired. Even more so, she wavers at the thought of mother’s hands around her wrists, of the shackles that had followed those of motherly love – Leopold’s, Rumpelstiltskin’s, Snow’s – and how this curse may just be but one more trap that she sets upon herself. Such are her thoughts, and as her mind tumbles and falls about them, Adela’s words waterfall around them without time to hold onto the edges of her mind. Thus, Adela crumbles with angry agitation as she spins her stories, in turn infuriating Regina with her severe black gown and her determination.

“I did advise against making a pirate into an ally, Your Majesty,” Adela chides during a cozy afternoon, an uneaten plate of walnuts between them and sweet cherry wine making Regina’s stomach feel queasy.

They’re sitting outside, the walls of the palace upsetting Regina today and making her feel anxious, and even though it’s much too cold now that the sun has almost set, she refuses the many offers made by the countess’ girls to walk back inside. The gardens are beautiful this time of the year, any case, and the scene before her is nearly picturesque in its quality. Wine is flowing freely, and everyone is busy munching on something or other; nuts and fruits, a privilege that many can’t afford on regular circumstances, much less so on the hard times that are following the war. There are many people about her, and Regina wonders, briefly and without caring much at all, how exactly they came to be here, and why it is that they have decided to stay. The countess and her girls were a given, much like Adela herself and her little charge, a few stragglers of her army, all gathered about Claude, and the huntsman, an eternal prisoner even now. Mulan and Prince Phillip join the party as well, and it is only Mulan’s hard stare what makes Regina remember her saviors, who had left her mind as promptly as they had left her side, and that now sit as an uncomfortable reminder of a deal made, and which she must fulfill as soon as possible, lest Mulan’s accusing glare turn into something more dangerous. Prince Phillip, however, seems content to rest among them as of now, probably far more used to the luxuries of court life, and to just how slowly royal business tends to be conducted; after all, Regina did promise them the solution to their little problem, but she very much didn’t state when she would fulfill such a promise, a severe misstep on both her savior’s parts. She has no plans to keep them trapped here, but she certainly can’t account for her feeble mind these days, and for whether they will slip her thoughts completely yet again or not.

She drags her gaze over the small gathering once more before bringing blinking eyes back to Adela, her pinched expression displeasingly bothersome. Honestly, that the woman insists on such sobriety even now, not just in her demeanor but also in her every word and in the severe black gown covering just about every inch of skin. Even her beautiful hands are hidden behind gloves today, and her face too is partially covered under black netting, making her look like Regina used to imagine ghostly widows might as a child, whenever father summoned them in his stories.

“Yes, Duchess?” she intones, bored out of her mind yet inescapably bound to the severity written in Adela’s eyes, that air about her that never fails to remind Regina of mother.

“As I was saying, I did advise against making a pirate into an ally, Your Majesty,” she insists, offended by the mere thought of having to repeat herself.

Regina motions vaguely at the air about them, so that Adela may elaborate on the thought, however useless it may be. As she speaks, Regina’s mind finds just a smidgeon of focus, and reminds her that Adela had been telling her about the fate of her Navy, which Regina had honestly forgotten all about even before the war had ended. After all, everything had been lost on the maritime front quite early, Prince Eric’s forces far outnumbering her own and counting with a naval experience bred from the history and traditions of his kingdom. Adela informs her that Nubia had survived, however, and so had a few of the strongest ships of the fleet, a number of which Nubia had chosen to make a statement with. The duchess tells her that at least ten galleons and warships had been burnt by the waters of the Royal Castle’s cliff, leaving Snow and her prince to watch as they were lost to the fire. Two carracks had remained, along with a small and fast caravel that Leopold had inherited from his father and had favored above every other ship, and which Regina had been more than pleased to gift Nubia for a flagship after their first meeting. Nubia had taken all three of them under her command and under a pirate a flag once news of Regina’s sentence had been made public, and had sailed away never to be heard of again. Adela is appalled by it all, but Regina can’t help but laugh at the tale.

“Is there nothing that will make you grieve your losses, Your Majesty?” Adela questions.

Regina shakes her head, thinking of the pirate queen with sudden fondness, remembering the days spent with her between the sheets and staring at the seas she’d so loved, listening to her speak of faraway lands that smelled of currants and saffron, kissing her scars with wet and willing lips. She rather cherishes the thought that Nubia is still out there, free and alive and beautiful, than to think her foolish enough to remain by Regina’s side when he’d thought her doomed, and resign herself to a fate that didn’t befit her.

“I’d rather Nubia run away with my ships than have them become an asset to Snow’s kingdom,” is what she says instead, causing the duchess to hum ambiguously, as if unsure on whether she should disapprove of any notion that proves to be a disadvantage for Snow White.

“Her duty as Naval Officer, howev–”

“Oh, duchess, do spare me your stuffiness for once; we are all having fun today, are we not?”

Soft, gay laughter follows her statement, and Regina quickly finds the source somewhere at the far end of the gardens, where a small group of four toast her way as soon as they meet her gaze. Regina had missed the group completely, but she easily recognizes Lord Ashton and his closest ally, Lord Dwennon, accompanied by their lovely wives. Both Lords had once upon a time been the worst-kept secret of the kingdom’s court, lovers from the day they’d met each other and married to equally resigned sisters who had probably been happy to pop the mandatory child and forget about the affections which their respective husbands weren’t keen to provide. They had always made for a funny little foursome, both the men fanciful gentlemen with a taste for luxury, and both women making the best out of husbands who were happy to spend money on them and expected nothing in the form of physical affection. As far as court members go, Regina had decidedly had a predilection for the four of them, if she’d never been under the impression that they were anything more than shallow entertainment. Truth be told, she’d been positive they would have sold their own mothers if it meant not having to work, which makes their presence here all the more surprising. A nice surprise they are, nonetheless, more so when Regina remembers that one of the sisters had had a penchant for pretty women herself, and had once spent a night on Regina’s bed, laughing merrily at the absurdity of her life and that of her husband’s. Thoughtlessly, Regina directs a bright smile her way, and wonders at the possibilities. After all, if her mind insists on wandering so, perhaps all she needs is to ground herself back into her body by occupying her thoughts with nothing but a pretty mouth between her legs.

The thought is brief, however, and even as Regina endeavors to chase after it and revel in the idea of pleasure, she finds herself impossibly distracted by a bout of unusual nostalgia. The lords and their wives bring forth hollow sentimentality over the mish-mash of people that she has had to endure during a lifetime where she has cared for few and detested many. She wonders just how many of her so called allies would have applauded her death, how many were present when Snow was meant to end her, and how many would have relished the sight of her dead body. She finds the thought horrendously morbid, and escapes it by turning once more towards the duchess, meeting her eyes and finding a sort of desperation settled within them.

Regina thinks the duchess may be unraveling before her, that she may have just been doing so from the moment she stepped inside Regina’s cell and was forced to face the fate of someone she had come to respect. It disgusts Regina, viscerally so, and she would hate the duchess for it if it only didn’t give her an excuse to remain strong, and to refuse the coddling being offered with coldness. Someone must endure, after all, she muses.

Still, Regina can’t quite shake her distaste, which only settles more firmly against her breastbone at the sight of Adela’s ill-boding black gown. The thick fabric of it falls heavily around the duchess, and yet where other women of similar size would have been dwarfed by the somber ensemble, the duchess looks imposing, completely composed but for what she finds to be glassy eyes. Regina has the sudden and absurd thought of pulling the pleated veil holding her hair up away from her very head, tugging at it until the rich chiffon is torn.

“Must it be black today, Adela?” Regina questions, the roughness of her voice pulling uncomfortably at her throat. “Have we not defeated death by the sanctimonious desires of the new queen? Surely you mustn’t wear black for me, duchess, not when I myself would have rather have gone in red, had I been given a choice on the matter; or purple, perhaps. Something pretty and expensive, most definitely, impractical by every standard of propriety,” Regina fantasizes, pulling yet again a chorus of laughter from somewhere in her audience. “Death is such an ugly thing, wouldn’t you agree? I rather fancy making a beautiful corpse – when the time does come, will you have me buried in something darling, duchess?”

“Quit your jesting, you – you improper _infant,_ ” the duchess snaps, so suddenly and out of character that Regina flinches, the barb landing unexpectedly unkind and almost physically against her chest.

Regina reacts with unwitting violence, standing up as her hand shoots forward, curling around thin air and willing it to do so about the duchess’ neck, too. Her magic bursts forward, yet Regina denies it escape despite her most foolish and underlying instincts. Even so, the duchess stands up as well and trips backwards, her foot catching the tail of her dress and making the movement clumsy enough to shake her severe demeanor momentarily, betraying something akin to misery in the expression hidden behind the elegant netting of her headwear. Regina spots the weakness with boundless hunger and despair both, and feeling disappointed, scoffs and takes one step back, allowing for breathing space in between them.

“Pardon me, Your Majesty, I–”

“ _Duchess,_ ” Regina stresses through gritted teeth, hoping to get the woman before her to behave in a manner that neither frustrates not angers her.

The duchess purses her lips, and the gesture must bring her back to her senses, for she immediately snaps her shoulders back, tensing her frame as she looks up and straight into Regina’s eyes, whatever intentions towards hiding she’d been harboring not seconds before now completely gone. She stretches a steady hand, then, and offers Regina a small and pretty wooden box, light red oak crafted by masterful hands in a simple and clean motif. Nothing good has ever come of pretty boxes of mysterious origins, but then Regina is at a standstill, and what could possibly affect her now? She reaches out herself, taking the small object and prying it open carelessly, if taking a moment to appreciate the rich fabric lining holding what looks like a tear shaped pendant on a long and intricate gold chain.

“Very beautiful,” she muses. “Old fashioned craftsmanship, if I may say so. Now _what_ is this, duchess, and what is it that you intend for me to do with it?” Regina is quick to question, frustrated beyond belief. It is too late for mysteries, considering she’s never had much patience for them to being with.

“Duke Nicholas would have you forgive him for the sentimentality, but he had no wife nor daughter to speak of, and it is a dear family heirloom,” Adela explains, her tone, flat and nearly disinterested, not quite managing to mask the dejection of what lies in between her words.

Regina blinks her way, wordlessly willing her to go on, her mouth suddenly dry and her parched lips glued together by her inability to form the questions piling at the forefront of her mind. Duke Nicholas, she wonders, and for the first time in far too long weeks she remembers her dutiful Military Advisor, and how she hasn’t seen him since that last day on the battlefield.

“You forgot about the Duke, did you not? After everything you were to him, after changing his very spirit and becoming–”

“Duchess, speak clearly, and do so _now._ ”

Scoffing, clearly having a hard time stopping her first tirade, Adela explains, “The duke saw fit to take it upon himself to protest against your execution with a handful of foolish men, sword in hand and no hope to speak of. He _berated me_ , the stubborn man, for even contemplating a life under Snow White’s rule, and he wouldn’t listen to reason, he wouldn’t–“ Adela stops, breathes in as if in need of containing her own emotions, and continues, “No wonder you were both such comrades in arms at all times. He refused to live longer than you, I believe.”

“How – _When?_ ”

“On the night it was made official. I was–I saw–well, there was a commotion and so much blood; do not think he didn’t take some soldiers on his way out but–he’s gone now,” the duchess finishes with a long sigh, as if expelling her grief by the mere act of describing the facts. “The execution was postponed, you must remember, out of respect, so you see, Your Majesty, the black isn’t for you – not today.”

The words are a trigger, and Regina succumbs to an abrupt and terrible magnification of all sensations – the hard collar of her gown feeling like starch where it meets the leather of her corset, the quiet chitter of the few winter birds inhabiting the gardens seeming like the squawk of a giant beast, and the cold night breeze making itself pervasive enough to cause shivers. All of Regina quivers, grounding her inside her body in the most uncomfortable way. Rather than finding her own bones a comforting thought, she feels heavy and clumsy, her hands spidery and numb when she places them against her belly, where liquid cold settles painfully. She has the sudden thought of being stared at, and realizes that she is indeed being inspected by every pair of eyes surrounding her, which seem keen on exposing her weaknesses and flaws. She flees, uncaring of the thoughts her escape will afford, and finding relief in the swift swirl of magic that takes her straight into her bedchambers and into the arms of solitude.

Regina stumbles forward and into her bed, remaining still and dazed for long enough that eventually, there are knocks and voices at her doors; father, she thinks. She sends him away, though, unwilling to allow him to pull at her heart until she gives way to grief. She has no tears left, has no energy to spare on regret, and no pity for a man that made his choices and stood by them. A man that she’d forgotten in the whirlwind of her own predicament, and who had kissed life goodbye behind the curtains, leaving her with nothing but a trinket for a keepsake. The small pendant is still resting inside the hollow of her hand, and Regina stares at it, dumbfounded, wanting to laugh and cry at the same time. She thinks of little Prince Bernard, who had abandoned her in much the same fashion, and who had too left a bauble for her; she thinks of Little Ace, who had gone in silent agony and had had no time to spare Regina a token of their short-lived affections. She refuses to think of the cold touch of the chain holding Daniel’s ring around her collarbones, refuses to give new life to her oldest and most powerful despair.

Instead, Regina sinks into sleep, looking for oblivion. Her dreams afford her none, however, and she conjures up aimless, convoluted illusions – dreams within dreams of ludicrous pursuit, of quests for unknown prizes that take her to harsh destinations, up steep stairways, by alleys and labyrinthine pathways that begin at Wonderland and finish at the manor where she’d spent her childhood, that see her cross the threshold of a never seen before white mansion, and finally across garishly lit basements and tunnels that lead her to the dank cell at the top of the Royal Castle’s tower, which in turn transforms itself into the nightmarish confines of the cellar she would be imprisoned within by mother’s orders as a child. Her goal is an enigma, and so her dreams just trail up and down until Regina doesn’t know whether she’s running towards something or away from it, only that her steps are heavy and cacophonously deafening, nothing but the cry of a child managing to get through them. Dreamlike spaces twist and turn and then Regina is running yet again, always running, down a dusty path and towards a cry and she knows this dream – it is no dream at all, but the prophecy Maleficent’s unicorn had once shown her, of a woman and a baby and Regina’s saving hands, and Regina wants to _runrunrun_ towards it, to a goal that now seems more certain than anything.

She wakes up abruptly with fear in her breathless pants and something dark twisting at her gut. The darkness outside confounds her, making her feel as if she’s still inside her dreams, still following one path and then the other, never knowing whether she’s walking forwards or backwards, whether she will find her childhood nightmares or the uncertainty of the future. She’s lost, she realizes, physically and mentally and in every other possible way, anxiety muddling her every thought. She was meant to die or conquer, yet Snow had condemned to a nightmare where she can do none, where she’s no longer queen yet she hasn’t been defeated, where there’s still magic and power coursing through her veins yet where everything she’s built for herself is destroyed. And now, with one less advisor by her side, with no one that she cares to trust, she’s lost, open wide to notions and ideas that at other times she has adamantly rejected. Why else, if not, does she find herself so utterly conquered by the thought of the Dark Curse?

Restless, Regina groans as she scooches to the edge of the bed and settles her naked feet down on the floor, enjoying the warm feeling of the rug under her soles. She stands up then, quickly stepping into her slippers and her thick robe, so as not to completely loose the warmth from the furs and heavy linens of her bed, and all the while ignoring the brisk glimpses her mirror offers her even in the dimness of the room. The moon is shining brightly enough, and Regina wants to ignore what she imagines to be her own haggard appearance, certain that all she’ll see are eyes like bruises and a too pale complexion. Adela had insisted at some point that she’s suffering from a deficiency of the blood, and she’d recommended a diet that had forced Regina into swallowing a tasteless lentil stew for a meal, the memory of which assaults her senses now with nauseating effects. She gags, and promises herself that she’ll eat nothing but that which pleases her anymore, since none of the suggested remedies seem to be helping her look nor feel healthier anyway.

As means of shaking her agitation away, Regina chooses to step away from her chambers, deciding that she would rather appreciate the sight of what must surely be a beautiful night, and that she fancies a bit of a walk, instead of the stillness of her balcony. She must do something with her swirling thoughts, and giving her body impulse and motion will surely put her mind at ease, if nothing else. Outside of her chambers and by her door, she finds daddy, asleep on a chair and probably uncomfortable beyond belief, the hefty woolen blanket someone must have thrown over him crumpled on the floor at his feet. Next to him and slumped on the floor against the wall, is the huntsman, asleep as well in much the same manner a dog might at the feet of his caring owner.

Regina takes a moment to pick up the blanket from the floor and settle it over father’s small frame, carefully tucking it about his shoulders and neck, so it won’t fall again. He looks and feels small to her, and the sight hits her with a sigh of absolute and unbridled tenderness.

“Daddy, oh, daddy,” she whispers, placing a small kiss on his forehead and smoothing the wild white hairs at his temple. “ _Toda va a ir bien, papi; te lo prometo, te lo prometo. No sé cómo todavía, pero vamos a superar esto, y todo va a ir bien.” **(1)**_

Soon, Regina is walking outside and by the edges of the garden, her steps thoughtless. It’s cold, but the night is clear, so the stars are bright above her and so is the moon, round and full and grey, making for a strange sense of satisfaction to settle upon Regina’s shoulders. She encounters a few guards in her way, and receives courteous greetings from them. She also finds Lord Ashton, Lord Dwennon and their wives engaged in a card game at candlelight, laughing gaily and making it seem like the most common of entertainments for bored court members to engage in. She offers them a bit of a smile, listens with only half an ear to their invitation to join the silly game, and keeps walking until there is no one around.

The palace’s gardens have been spared the fire and brimstone that many forests have fallen prey to during the war, yet they have certainly gained an air of wildness and carelessness, a bit of disorder that Regina decides she quite likes. It makes her feel as if in a place she’s never been to before, as if she could truly get lost in the mazes of greenery and sweet smells, with nothing but the random bouts of winter breeze causing the leaves to stir.

Despite her walk following no rhyme nor reason, she realizes eventually that she’s making her way towards the palace’s graveyard, the sight of which causes a sigh to lodge at the base of throat and tease at her with tightness. She steps into the hallowed ground nonetheless and soon finds exactly what she may have been unwittingly looking for. The newest slab sits grey, small and still, its carved letters reading simply _Duke Nicholas_ , with no other quote or title afforded to the man. He’d never been a man of many words, and it suits his spirit. Truth be told, she hadn’t expected to find him here, not knowing whether the transportation would have been allowed since his death had happened at the Royal Palace, but of course Snow had allowed it, kind and lacking pettiness even in this.

“Insipid child,” she murmurs under her breath, “of course you couldn’t be expected to put up with her or her rule, of course.” Then, suddenly angry, “But how foolish, too, dear duke, how silly for an old man like you to go down on a blaze of glory on your queen’s name. Whose advice am I to ignore now, huh? Adela has already given up on me, and I think I might do something quite terrible, duke, something definitive.”

Silence is all the answer she gets, and she only snaps out of a momentary nostalgic spell when the wind rustles the trees surrounding the small collection of graves. Regina casts her eyes far and away from the duke’s resting place, her gaze catching minutely at Little Ace’s tombstone, engraved with her full name and some quote Regina had never bothered to read. Father had chosen it, she thinks, or maybe her little cousin herself before she’d passed, but it hardly matters when it probably fails at encompassing Little Ace’s wild soul.

Further back, a shrubbery of thick brambles has been allowed to grow over the late king’s respective place. Snow had rejected the idea of a mausoleum back in the day, respectful of her father’s simple tastes, and had had a white, marble slab engraved with the words _King Leopold, beloved father and king_ instead _._ Regina remembers softly talking her out of adding the word _husband_ to the memorial, carding some story about the importance of his role as monarch, and the extension of such as father, and how his romantic endeavors should only pale before those.

“Regina, you are so kind, ever so kind, and he loved you so very much,” Snow had answered, even as she let go of the idea of crowing her father’s death with the one word that would join him to Regina in eternity.

Regina smirks now, happy that she’d ordered the thickets of greens to be planted by the king’s tomb, so that she may completely forget him, his wandering hands and the engagement ring he had imprisoned her with. She escapes the thoughts of her late husband with determination, turning her eyes up towards the sky and the pretty moon, breathing in the cold air. A few moments pass, and she hugs herself for warmth, bringing her robe closer about her frame. It’s time for her to go back, and to try catch a smidgeon of dreamless sleep, she thinks. Perhaps tomorrow her mind won’t be as feeble, and she will be able to turn her efforts towards something other than idleness, which she’s sure is what Duke Nicholas would have asked of her.

“Dear duke…” she whispers one last time.

“I am deeply sorry for your loss.”

Regina startles, not enough that magic springs forward but definitely enough to make her jump and gasp, turning her frame jerkily towards the sound. Had Mulan spoken a little louder, she may have just broiled her on the spot, a fact of which she informs her promptly.

“Sorry,” Mulan replies, her little smile betraying that she’s anything but.

Regina closes her eyes into slits, regarding her sudden companion with keen interest. Mulan’s dressed down enough that Regina nearly misses the dagger safely tucked at her waist, cinched about it and settled along her thigh comfortably. It’s not her sword, but Regina doesn’t doubt she could do just as much damage with it, if not more, given Regina’s own choice of clothing, her nightgown and robe certainly much more vulnerable than any of her thick corseted gowns would have been. Mulan looks relaxed however, whether because she actually is or because her attire suggests so Regina can’t be sure, however. Out of her armor and in simple breeches, boots and shirt, all clean and settled snugly about her shoulders and torso, she casts an air of ease about her, of agility and litheness. Regina envies it briefly, and then contents herself with being able to enjoy the beautiful sight that she makes.

“You have wandered far,” Regina states, noting the interested way in which Mulan is looking about her, at the thick trees and whatever may lay beyond them.

After the briefest of smiles, Mulan confesses, “I’m looking for means of escape, shall the need arise.”

“Escape?” Regina’s eyebrows climb up her forehead, surprised and delighted at the same time. Curse her ailing mind that had allowed her to forget just how much she’d enjoyed Mulan and her mysteries during their time together. Gathering her wits about her, Regina smiles herself, and questions, “Are you not being treated adequately, that you would leave me so soon?”

“Oh no,” Mulan reassures, her searching eyes wandering back to Regina. “The warm bathing water has been a blessing, and I have never before slept in a bed so comfortable, or been fed with such care.”

“Then?”

“A comfortable prison is still a prison.”

Regina laughs at that, the sound loud and carrying with the wind. “You’re free to leave, dear; when I decide to keep you for myself, I will let you know,” she lets suggestion leak into her tone, and even endeavors to wink Mulan’s way, even if the gesture has always managed to escape her and make her look a little funny.

It’s all wasted on Mulan, any case, who either doesn’t notice her antics or doesn’t care for them, and who simply tenses what had up until now been a nice smile. The white pressure about her lips hardens her whole expression, making her following words all the more serious for it.

“A bargain was struck, Your Majesty, and you have failed to fulfill your end of it.”

Regina sighs, her wavering at whether teasing Mulan further would be amusing or not short-lived. She’s rather tired, she finds, and she has no wish to tease someone as stony as Mulan has proven to be, nor to spend time with someone who would rather be anywhere else. Thus, with a flourish of her hand and a spark of the magic that is now back under her full command, she conjures up a written parchment and a vial of shiny potion.

“I confess our little deal may have escaped my mind,” Regina says, pursing her lips, “however, I do not break my promises.” Reaching out, she offers both objects to Mulan, who wraps a greedy hand about the vial and looks at the written words before her with interest.

Her agreed prize in hand, Mulan’s shoulders seem to relax, and she absentmindedly walks towards the closest stone bench she can find and sits down blindly, her eyes scanning the words as her lips mouth them silently. Regina used to do the same as a child whenever she’d wanted to memorize something, usually whichever snippet of knowledge mother had decided to make her priority on any given day, but Regina guesses Mulan might be doing so for a different reason. Regina can’t completely guess at the woman’s background, even if it’s obvious to her that she doesn’t come from the same kind of upbringing her companion Phillip does. She might not be royalty, but Regina knows her to be educated, if perhaps not much in the same manner as herself. Nonetheless, she believes the common tongue might not be Mulan’s native one, and that her mouthing the words might be an easy way to help herself understand and translate.

Feeling serene herself and having let go of the restlessness that had thrown her out of bed, Regina sits by Mulan, close enough that she can feel the warmth from where their thighs would be touching if only she would inch just a bit to the side.

“It will take you some time to gather all ingredients, but I have provided you with the magic you will need to finish the potion,” Regina informs, taking on the tone of a bored teacher. “Of course, once the first spell is broken, you’ll find your princess under a sleeping curse, which I can do nothing about.”

“She’s not my princess,” Mulan snaps, a warm blush spreading through her cheeks immediately, and prompting Regina’s laughter.

Mulan’s embarrassment is so deliciously pretty that Regina would love nothing more than to lean towards her and kiss her lips. Unfortunately, she’s positive Mulan wouldn’t allow for such a thing, and Regina doesn’t take particularly well to rejection, so she keeps to herself. In any case, Mulan doesn’t leave her much time to ponder the possibilities, instead clearing her throat at directing her attention forward and at the graves before them.

“He was a close friend?” she asks, motioning vaguely forward.

Regina shrugs, unsure of how much she wants to share or of whether she wants to be here at all. It seems to her that Mulan is taking much too many liberties around her, and that Regina is simply letting her get away with them. After all, not a week ago, she’d had Mulan’s sword at her neck, which should have been enough reason to throw her in her dungeons and completely forget ever meeting her in the first place. She’s not quite sure why she hasn’t done just that, and if she’s honest with herself, she may find a well of thankfulness for the warrior and her companion that she refuses to explore. It would do nothing other than remind her how little kindness she’s known, and how eager she’s for it, that she’ll forgive trespasses and liberties with pleasure.

Whatever the case, Regina finds herself answering Mulan’s question, and letting her mind run with her words. “The duke was my late husband’s Military Advisor.”

“Your husband?”

“The king.”

Mulan blinks at her, mouthing a quiet, “right, the king,” as if the notion that Regina’s title was something she married into, rather than something that she was born with is bizarre. “And he became yours?”

“Something along those lines, I suppose,” Regina muses, laughing softly as she recounts, “Duke Nicholas wouldn’t even look at a woman back in the _good old days,_ ” and this she says affecting an accent, as if she were one of those jolly and fat men of the court, so secure in their power and seat that they hadn’t seen change coming their way. “He thought us annoying at best, and useless on a good day. He didn’t even have a particular sensual taste for us, you see, but one day he got his little mustached face out of his ass and realized I was the one ruling the kingdom, and he was quick to change his tune. He was smart enough to change his ways, if nothing else.”

When she looks back at Mulan, she finds a strange expression on her. Closed off and unreadable, Mulan’s lips turn down into something that resembles a pout, but that may just be utter disgust. Bewildered by it, Regina isn’t even bothered when Mulan stands up abruptly and stays still before her, the hand that isn’t clutching vial and parchment wrapping itself about the hilt of her dagger.

“There was a man, back in my village,” Mulan says, the non-sequitur confounding, and not something that Regina particularly cares for. Whatever the point of Mulan’s change and story, she has an inkling that she won’t like it, and she can already feel herself getting angry in anticipation. Nonetheless, Mulan either ignores the signs or chooses to step on then, for she continues, “Shang, he was a good man, an honorable man. We fought well together and he cared for me, didn’t even raise an eyebrow at my–my–“ and at this she motions at herself, encompassing everything from her breeches to her weapon and her stance. “He was a good man,” she repeats.

“But he was a man,” Regina says, completing what she thinks may be Mulan’s thoughts, “and you would rather not marry one at all.”

Mulan nods, the gesture quick and short, matching the aplomb of her expression. “I thought I could, but I took my word back. I dishonored my family.”

Regina snorts, raising her eyebrows in amusement before Mulan’s stony grief. If opposing her own mother would have been a simple question of _honor,_ then Regina would have been free of her quite sooner. What would Mulan say if she were to tell her that she spent the better part of a year rolling around the grass with her secret lover, happy to forget honor and virtue and have joy and love instead?

“Is that why you made Phillip’s quest your own?” Regina wonders, “You figured that if you can’t honor your family by spreading your legs at their will you would at least make sure some other poor princess does?”

“You’re so–”

Mulan recoils, saying nothing else and flinching when Regina barks out a laugh. Regina knows her crassness bothers Mulan, and she wouldn’t find herself so inclined towards it if not for it. It makes her happy, this kind of petty amusement.

“Why are you telling me this, Fa Mulan?” Regina wonders. “Are you seeking absolution or judgment? I shall give you none, dear, but I will bed you if you want.”

Mulan takes a step back, shaking her head and settling a steady yet stormy gaze upon a Regina. “I brought dishonor upon myself and my family, and that choice is one I must live with, but you, you–”

“Yes?”

“You speak of changing a man’s principles, a man’s ways and understanding of the world as if it were nothing,” the statement is both passionate and frustrated, and Regina blinks at it, not quite sure that she understands or whether she wants to. She doesn’t know if Mulan is readying to strike her or build her up, but the shimmering anger of anticipation within her gut hasn’t faded. Taking a deep breath, Mulan speaks again, her words hard if her countenance less agitated. “Whenever I heard stories about you, the big, bad Evil Queen, I figured you were a monster, no better than an animal, worthy of pity at best.”

“Are you testing my limits, little girl?” Regina snaps. “I will allow for your next words to make up for your insults.”

“That is the thing, Your Majesty, you are no animal. You’re resourceful, respected, you’re capable of changing the world about you, of changing people, of having them look upon you with admiration, of – of making me wish I had strength like yours, to so easily disregard other people’s rules. It makes you worse than a monster.”

Regina stands up at that, feeling herself reach for her own stomach as means of stopping herself from reaching out with her magic. Mulan doesn’t quiver before her, and stands her ground, keeping her pretty eyes steady on Regina’s and her hand curled about her dagger.

“You have a choice,” Mulan tells her. “In a world where many have none, you do, and you’re choosing to be this thing, this terrible, terrible thing. If you had any honor in you–“

“Fuck your honor, dear, and stop your blabbering mouth!” Regina exclaims, the bubble of anger climbing up her throat and past her lips, straightening her frame until she feels like the terrible, terrible thing Mulan is accusing her of being. “There is no honor in a forced marriage bed nor in a world which demands it. I won’t be bound by the priggish notions of a world that points its fingers at me and calls me evil, that would forever choose honorable and insipid Snow White.”

“But you changed a man–”

Regina snickers, unkind. “One man in a sea of idiocy, one man in a world that would readily condemn you, darling Mulan, for speaking your mind, and be quick to sacrifice you to its notions of morality.”

“So you would rather burn it all to the ground?”

“Oh yes, and believe me that I have tried,” Regina tells her, viciousness in her voice and in the smirk that follows, pervasive anger mixing with something like mischief and allowing laughter to pour out. “Then again maybe you are right, and it is time for a change.”

Mulan stares at her after such words, uncomprehending and magnificently tense, the hand at her dagger a prominent threat. Perhaps Mulan should use her weapon and cut her throat, save the world she feels so bound to from the torture that Regina’s mind is already giving shape to. However, Mulan can no more kill her now than Regina could have allowed Snow to succumb to death at the back of a horse or at the hands of sickness, both their natures tied together in anger and misunderstanding, yet in prevalent madness just as well. Even if Regina will commit a crime against this world unlike any other before, and even if Mulan suspects the notions if she can’t fathom its ways, she won’t make use of her killing hand.

“Don’t you worry,” Regina intones after a minute, suddenly soft in her lunacy, as well as in the hand that she reaches forward to rest upon Mulan’s shoulder briefly. “You may not mind a world governed by my desires, dear. After all, silly honor won’t bound you to useless grief once everyone is nothing but what I order them to be.”

Mulan takes a step back at that, more affected by Regina’s careful tone than she was by her anger before, her eyes betraying a sheen of fearful resignation. “You would do something like that, something so–”

“Terrible? Why yes, of course. I am the Evil Queen, am I not? And if I’ve filled this role then it has only been because this petty world and their pretty, pretty princess have stolen away any other person I have tried to be – so I shall repay them with an equal favor and steal their lives away.”

The hand resting at Mulan’s dagger opens and closes about its hilt, yet it doesn’t tremble, nor does it spring forward into action. Regina smirks in Mulan’s direction, smug in her superiority and in the knowledge that Mulan’s principles afford her doubt but not resolve. Suddenly, Regina find her as insipid as Snow White herself, her kindness so blind so as to set a monster free on the world. Straightening up and throwing her shoulders back, Regina exhorts Mulan to run if she dares, to try and escape the fate Regina has already decided this realm must suffer, to leave her sight before she changes her mind and decides to throw both her and her prince in her dungeons just out of petty amusement. Mulan does leave, one last look between Regina’s face and her own dagger enough to throw away her inner struggle and push her to finally leave her side, and quickly enough, Regina knows, her every thought. It’s better this way, she knows, for she has no use for judgment or advisors anymore, not when her mind is resolute and her heart settled upon her desires.

A world of her own making, what a terrible notion. She laughs silently, and after a while, decides to walk back towards her bedchambers, and to claim what she knows will be dreamless sleep this time. She must rest, after all, for there will be much to do and much to consider. Rumpelstiltskin will be visiting soon, she now realizes, for surely he must play his own role of scheming mastermind and try and convince her of doing something that she has already decided to do. She’ll let him do his talking and twirling, if only for the entertainment, and will even allow him one or two cruel barbs, just to let him think he’s one step ahead. It will amuse her so, and she’s due some enjoyment, just as she’s owed retribution and command. Yes, she will most definitely do something terrible, and she will do it with delightful glee.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Everything will be alright, daddy; I promise, I promise. I don't know how, but we're going to get through this, and everything will be alright.


End file.
